


All We've Got Is Time

by rxcrcfllptrs



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bullying, Canon-Typical Violence, Crushes, Fix-It, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Gen, Inaccurate Computer Science, M/M, Mild Language, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Not Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, Panic Attacks, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker is Tony Stark's Biological Child, Peter says Fuck, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Spider-Man: Homecoming Spoilers, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-05-15 21:35:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19304287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rxcrcfllptrs/pseuds/rxcrcfllptrs
Summary: They're well past the hurt now, and it's time to rebuild from the ashes and debris.Harley Keener sets out east to New York, armed with a bluff he hopes fate won't call, faith in a man who crashed into his garage an entire lifetime ago, and — well, he cooks. He cooks a lot. He cooks to destress because sometimes your crush/friend (who is your boss' kid, what thehell) gets into way more danger than is humanly possible. Oh, and the Rogues are coming home, bringing your boss way more stress than it really should.Who exactly is supposed to be the damsel in distress here?AKA: the indulgent food fic-slash-Homecoming fix-it that no one asked for. More ship, character, and additional tags will be added as chapters progress.





	1. this could be good

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Cooking Cowboy, with Jesse McCree](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9468143) by [SadakoTetsuwan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SadakoTetsuwan/pseuds/SadakoTetsuwan). 



> Oh boy oh boy oh boy here it is! This fic is really an expanded take on my other fic, [my love, my love, my love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19247968), that isn't quite as nebulous and actually references canon for once. Hooray! 
> 
> This is heavily inspired by "The Cooking Cowboy, with Jesse McCree" by SadakoTetsuwan, and that fic all the feel-goods that I hope to achieve in this one as well. Give that one a shot if you're up for some domestic feel-goods with an Overwatch universe that doesn't hurt.
> 
> Anyway! This is a post-CW fic but I've elected to ignore IW and Endgame. Any inaccuracies are mine and I apologise in advance! There will be no character bashing for either side, just a lot of good times and getting the boyband back together. 
> 
> As a warning for the entire fic: there will be lots of **descriptions of food preparation of all kinds** , so that's an advance warning if you're squeamish or have restrictions that make certain foods uncomfortable for you.
> 
> Enjoy. ♡

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harley arrives at Stark Tower armed with a bluff and wisps of future plans. Tony dads in the way he knows how, and Peter gets pancakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from Mary Lambert's "[She Keeps Me Warm](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NhqH-r7Xj0E)".
> 
> As a warning for this chapter, there will be a **description of a panic attack** , which starts at "He can do that." and ends at "He knows that’s not the point, but there’s more there than a mug of tea and spare bedroom can fix." Take care!

_This is so not going to work._

That’s the recurring thought that’s been in Harley’s head for the past few days. Few months, technically, since he told Mama that he wants to head out to New York and make a name for himself there. (He doesn’t say it’s because he misses the vivacity and dynamism that Tony Stark brought into his life one strange day about a couple lifetimes ago. He doesn’t say he wants it back and wants a life bigger than this.)

It’s been in his head since he packed his bags and filled up the tank and kissed Mama and Abbie goodbye and prayed to some fucking deity out there that they weren’t gonna call his bluff. It’s in his head when he’s on the highway with endless cornfields going a touch too fast for comfort, playing nonsense on his phone as the yellow and blue and green go on and on and on.

It’s still in his head now, as he's parked in a free spot somewhere close to Stark Tower. He’s leaning on his car as he calls up a number that he’s only ever contacted once before. It takes one, two, three sends to voicemail before anyone vaguely human picks up.

“You have reached the Life Model Decoy of Tony Stark. Any and all potato gun enthusiasts may leave complaints, suggestions, and marriage proposals at the door,” the voice is so scarily monotone that Harley about thinks that he did actually call a Life Model Decoy, whatever the hell _that’s_ supposed to be. At least, until he catches the reference to his old invention. So he puts his free hand in his pocket and tilts his head back, eyeing a spot in the Tower where Tony would probably be in.

“I’m not even gonna question what a Life Model Decoy is,” Harley lays his accent on thick to tamp down the anxiety welling in the pit of his stomach. “But uh, I have this car that I got from some crazy billionaire genius back when I was 12, parked in some uppity place between Too-Rich Street and Ew-Poor-People Avenue,” he tilts his head. “Is there space in that ugly Tower for one more wayward weirdo?”

There’s a few seconds of quiet, then a couple objects hitting each other and an ‘ow, _christ_!’. “Jesus, Keener. You know I have a heart condition. Give a guy a heads-up sometime.”

“Like you gave me a heads-up when you crashed in my garage like, forever ago,” he smirks.

“Point taken, but I think getting blown up by a crazy terrorist is a good enough excuse for last minute reservations,” there’s muffled muttering for a moment, receiver covered by a hand, then Tony returns in full clarity. “Come on up. Tell them you’re due for an appointment for a Root-Based Tuber Mechanics Consultation.”

The line abruptly goes dead after that.

And finally, after so long, Harley can exhale. Relief floods his bones and there’s a light feeling in his lungs. He closes his eyes and lets the sun warm his face for a moment.

 

* * *

 

Logically, it makes sense that a well-known landmark and figurehead should have so many security measures. The more to deter anyone thinking of making an attempt on Tony Stark’s life, the better.

It makes sense, but the weaving and multiple elevators and long hallways and metal detectors are kind of hell on someone who’s been driving across the country for several days. _Jeez, give me a break._ A break that he does take in one of the many long hallways from Elevator God Knows to Stairwell Wherever the Fuck. Harley sets his duffle bag off to the side and sits with his back against the wall. His knees are up against his chest, just in case someone else is taking the same convoluted route that he is. He takes several breaths and wonders if he’s way in over his head.

“Hey, cowboy,” comes a voice from some concealed speaker in the ceiling.

“God?” Harley quips.

There’s a snort. “No. You wish,” a pause. Are you gonna just sit there waiting for some kind of bellhop service? This consultation’s charged by the hour, you know.”

Now Harley hasn’t spoken Stark-ese in a while, but he thinks that’s supposed to mean ‘ _are you okay?_ ’. He hopes the middle finger he puts up is read as ‘ _I’m fine, stop worrying_ ’ in Keener-ish.

Tony makes a noise. “Suit yourself. Just let FRIDAY — that’s my new AI, you’ll like her — know when you’ve reached the penthouse.” Then Harley’s alone again.

He takes a steadying breath, then stands and dusts himself off. Yeah, he’s way in over his head, but he steels himself and prepares for whatever comes his way. He wouldn’t take anything less.

 

* * *

 

Whatever Harley was expecting when he reached the penthouse, it wasn’t _this_.

_This_ being almost colliding with someone who was in way too much of a hurry and needed to slow down or they’d trip.

_This_ being another guy around his age with curly dark hair and wide brown eyes and an apple in his mouth.

_This_ being: oh god, he’s so screwed.

“Hi! You must be Harley! I’m Peter, and I’m gonna be late for school! Sorry we had to meet like this! I swear I’ll make up for this later or something! Bye!” the flurry of manic energy named Peter says, a rush from the kitchen to the living room and straight to the waiting elevator.

“Oh,” is the only thing Harley manages to get out before Peter disappears. “Uh, okay,” he says afterward, putting his bag down and persistently pushing down the gay panic welling inside him. Nope. Nope. Not gonna think about that now. _Especially_ not right now.

“Welcome, Mr. Keener,” a pleasant Irish voice emanates from the ceiling. “I am FRIDAY. The boss is currently in a conference call, he will be with you shortly.”

‘The boss’, he mouths. _Right. Okay._ He can do this. He can confront the billionaire whose doorstep he just marched into with his gifted car and phone number and ask to stay in his Tower. He can control the weird gay panic appearing at the sight of Tony’s — intern? nephew? _son?_ — dependent. He can survive in the event that things go terribly wrong.

He can do that. He can do this. Can he?

He can. He can do that.

His fists clench and his breath shortens out, feeling his chest heave shallower and shallower breaths as he slowly sinks to the floor. _Dammit, pull yourself together, Keener,_ he thinks, along with a litany of _you can do this_ and _is it even possible_ and _what am I doing_ —

“Hey, hey,” there’s a voice close to him, but it feels like there’s a glass barrier between them. Even when the person (that he knows is Tony, but it’s so hard to connect the dots in the static buzzing through him) is wrapping their arms around him and murmuring encouragements, head bowed. “You’re fine, you’re in a safe place right now, you’re with good people," the voice is a warm hush, parental in a way he's never known. 

He sits there motionless as someone rocks him back and forth, back and forth, a hummed melody rumbling and sinking into his bones. "Do you think we could move to the couch?” It takes Harley a moment, but he nods.

His hands and feet feel both heavy and full of sensation, pins and needles dampened by his numbed extremities. Yeah, he’s panicking, but damn him if he cries. He’s far deep in this hole enough.

“Are you taking anything for this?” _For this?_ _Why would I take anything for some random physical response to panic?_ Harley doesn’t voice these thoughts out loud, just shakes his head.

“I’ll get some tea started,” Tony says before pulling away, and really, what else is Harley going to be able to do about it? His joints feel so stiff and frozen that he has to use his fist to pry his other hand uncurled. It takes effort to keep it from closing in on itself again.

After what feels like forever but also no time at all, Tony returns with two mugs (one is “Yoda Best Dad”, the other is “Let’s have a moment of Science”) and puts one on the coffee table in front of them. Harley’s still looking down at his hands, not really looking at anything except on getting feeling back in his palms.

“I don’t like being handed things,” Tony says after a moment like some kind of explanation, taking a sip of his drink. “Try warming your palms with the mug, it’ll help,” he gestures with his mug, and Harley gingerly takes the one on the table. Better to take precaution now rather than end up spilling it everywhere later.

They sit there in the quiet, nursing their respective beverages until Harley can feel his lower legs again. When he can wiggle his toes in his boots, and he can tap his fingernails on the ceramic.

Tony huffs before breaking the silence, “You sure do know how to make a lasting impression, kid.” He puts the mug on the table, before tacking on, “and before your head runs off with that, no, it’s not a bad thing. You’re talking to the king of bad first, second, third, and last impressions,” he says with his hands spread open, a ‘what can you do?’ kind of smile on his face.

Harley blinks, startled by Tony’s forwardness about the entire situation. His mouth slightly quirks up as an offer of a smile, before sighing the steam off his mug. “Thanks. Sorry, I don’t know what got into me there.”

Harley's so preoccupied with staring at his drink that doesn’t see how Tony frowns, the way his eyes flick to Harley’s hands and their slight trembling. “Don’t worry about it. We can sit here for a bit until you’re ready to get settled in your room.”

Harley snaps his gaze towards Tony then, eyes wide and brows arching high. Tony would’ve laughed, had he not seen the fear and panic earlier, a far cry from the gratitude and awe shining in those grey eyes now.

“What? Did you think you were getting a room in the _communal floor_? I’m insulted, Keener.”

He knows that’s not the point, but there’s more there than a mug of tea and spare bedroom can fix.

 

* * *

 

“Okay, I know you just got here and had a rough morning,” Tony starts off with a wince. “To start off with, but I think,” he pauses, “it would do us some good to communicate what’s gonna happen.”

They’re situated on the kitchen island now, Tony standing, leaning his weight on one side of the table and Harley on a stool on the other. Tony has a cup of coffee now, and he gave Harley a [beaded ring](https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/542c1cb5e4b0a8c50e8d3374/1556827983845-SV5AXEV9C5LNEZYHNC8H/ke17ZwdGBToddI8pDm48kJUlZr2Ql5GtSKWrQpjur5t7gQa3H78H3Y0txjaiv_0fDoOvxcdMmMKkDsyUqMSsMWxHk725yiiHCCLfrh8O1z5QPOohDIaIeljMHgDF5CVlOqpeNLcJ80NK65_fV7S1UYapt4KGntwbjD1IFBRUBU6SRwXJogFYPCjZ6mtBiWtU3WUfc_ZsVm9Mi1E6FasEnQ/bead+ring4.png) to fidget with. The plastic beads make quiet ‘click-clack’ noises against each other as he spins the ring on his finger.

Tony surges onward. “It doesn’t have to be an entire blood pact with live sacrifices and flaming guitar solos, but even just a few pointers so we have something to start off with would be good.”

Harley purses his lips, lost in a miasma of _you’re giving him more trouble than you’re worth_ and _you should just turn back and head home right now_ , “Tony, I’m so sor—“

And Tony stops that dead in its tracks with a dismissive hand wave. “You’re not being a bother, you’re not causing any more trouble than what the World Council could possibly give me,” he furrows his brows a bit. “For what it’s worth, this is strangely domestic and _way_ better than shouting down a dignitary over some esoteric clause on freakin’… specialized weaponry registration or whatever,” he waves a free hand to the living room. “And if you haven’t noticed, the Tower is basically me and Pete right now.”

“But—“

“But nothing. You asked, I answered. I have the space, and you clearly planned for this regardless of whatever I say,” he takes a sip of coffee to hide the grimace from the train of thought on where Harley would’ve ended up in _the extremely unlikely event_ that he'd say no. “And I say, I’ll help you the same way you did me. Don’t think of it as repaying a debt, think of it as,” he waves his mug in bid to get the right words out. “As being a friend. And being a friend means no take backs.”

Harley hunches over after that little rant. “No take backs,” he mutters, tone almost akin to wonder. He huffs. The conversation trails to silence again.

And again, Tony takes the reins. “While you’re figuring out what you want to say, I just need to lay down some ground rules,” _Some_ , he snorts inwardly. “Nothing too serious, just some protocols because you’ll be living in a very visible giant Tower that's been associated with superheroing,” he nods to himself, tacking on “in the past,” with a plaintive smile. He’d take a moment to mourn for what he’s lost, but he goes on.

“Try not to stay out after midnight. FRIDAY can order anything online or from local places if you need food or anything from the store that late,” he tilts his head before adding on. “Maybe give a few days headway for any major hardware components,” he wiggles his free hand noncommittally. “If you do need to go out for whatever reason, let Fri know.”

A thought strikes him, and he starts to rummage in his pockets, only to come up empty. “Hm,” he pauses, puts both his hands on his mug. “I’ll get you a new phone so you’ll have at least one tracker on you at all times,” he points both index fingers towards Harley, who doesn’t look like he’s fallen asleep yet. 

“I know you’re a teenager so you’ll probably keep it on you at all times, but don’t lose it,” Tony thinks back to all the times Peter’s lost his phone from leaving his bag behind and shakes his head. “If you end up in some crappy loser-villain's mom's basement goaded for Stark Industries trade secrets, it'll be our best shot to track you until I can get you something better that isn't as easy to lose,” he pauses to take a breath, until he realizes he’s said all he needs to say. He drinks half his coffee as the mostly one-sided conversation trails off to silence.

“That’s it?” Harley asks, tracing curving patters on the counter with his finger. “That’s one, not some.”

Tony furrows his brow and waves out a hand as an incredulous _‘really?’_ expression. “What? I’m not your parent,” he pauses, _I am_ a _parent, though_ , “But if you insist,” he puts his cup down and starts to list off, holding up a finger with each one. “Practice safe sex, no means no, no hard drugs, other drugs need discussion, no wild parties on a school night, and drinking only when there’s a sober adult present. And FRIDAY does not count as an adult.”

Harley snorts. “You’re such a dad. Did you rehearse that while I was on my way up?”

The weird twinge of tension in Tony’s chest abates. “Nah. The spiel comes with the job title,” he grins and shoots finger guns, clicking his tongue as he does so. “Anyway, what about you? What were you planning on doing, hoofing it to New York?”

There’s a pause, before Harley makes a noise. “Don’t laugh.”

Tony can only stare. “Many of my dumb ideas have been publicized in national and international media,” he tilts his head, grinning. “I’ll keep my laughter in here,” he presses a hand to his chest.

“Very comforting,” Harley replies, dry. He props his elbows on the table, right cheek resting on his knuckle with the ring fidget. “I was thinking of doing some kind of,” he waves his free hand. “I don’t know, Stark Industries internship before going to college,” and he hastily adds on as he ducks his head, not wanting to come off as presumptuous. “I can earn it by being an apprentice of some kind, or a shadow in your workshop or something.”

He sighs, a jumble of words and ideas in his brain. “I just don’t think schooling’s it for me right now,” he looks up to Tony’s face. “World’s a mess,” he gestures to Tony, “I’m a mess,” then to himself. “And I’d rather not have student debt on top of all that, until… until I’m sure it’s what I want.”

Tony purses his lips, brows knitting together in thought. “Surprisingly rational for you, Keener.”

Harley rolls his eyes. He’d punch Tony in the shoulder, if he could. “Don’t be a dick.”

“Not trying to be,” Tony flashes a smile. “But,” he clears his throat. “I can get behind that. At least you won’t end up lounging in my penthouse eating my food for the rest of your days,” he puts both hands flat on the table on either side of his mug. “Do you want to start your internship now, or try shadowing first?”

Whatever Harley was expecting, it wasn’t _that_. He looks at Tony with wide eyes, stunned to silence. Today just seems to be chock-full of surprises, one after the other. _Not to be old or anything_ , but his heart may not be able to take it. Harley's mouth opens and closes, a warm brightness threatening to burst from his chest as words fight to make their way to being known.

There's that awestruck gaze again, full of wonder that some days Tony still isn't sure he's worthy of being the recipient of. But he's learnt to be gracious about it, raising his mug in acknowledgement.

“Just like that?” Harley whispers, shoulders hunched but still sat up enough to look at Tony in the eye.

Tony nods, a sincere smile on his face. “Just like that. Welcome to the Tower, kid.”

 

* * *

 

Cooking brings Harley calm, brings him the quiet that comes with taking care of himself and taking care of Abbie. Of when they’re home from school and Mama won’t be back until late, _so don’t wait up for me, okay?_

Normally he’d be making this as the sun rose, but it’s somewhere between midnight and too-early-to be-awake-o’clock. He makes the pancakes anyway, too wired to sleep. And hey, at least there’ll be breakfast when he’s done. 

Harley cooks to get away from the thoughts rampaging in his head, all in a bid to keep up with the recent events. He'll have time to sort through them later. For now, he'll take the ease of measuring, mixing, and pouring to calm down. 

He raids the cupboards for the requisite pancake ingredients: flour, eggs, sugar, salt, milk, and leaveners. He’d look for butter and syrup too, but beggars can’t be choosers. Or at least, not until he bullies Tony into letting him restock the communal kitchen. But, he does steal an apple or two from the penthouse kitchen and puts them down next to the bowl he has ready.

“Friday, is there a box grater I could use here?” his voice is quiet, though he knows no one is occupying this floor right now but him.

“There is a food processor in the cabinet next to the refrigerator, its auxiliary blades are stored under the utensil drawer,” she turns on a light highlighting both storage areas, and Harley nods.

“Thanks, Fri,” he takes out the food processor first. It’s all dusty from disuse, so he’ll have to give that a rinse. He finds the grater blade and attachment and puts that in the dishwasher too.

While those get cleaned, he prepares two bowls of wet and dry ingredients. He normally doesn’t have the luxury of multiple bowls — turning recipes into one bowl or one pots were a common occurrence in the Keener household — and gleefully measures out the flour, sugar, salt, and leaveners in one bowl. It’s a recipe he knows by heart, so he eyeballs the entire affair. Plus, it’s pancakes, nothing finicky like macarons or soufflés.

Then Harley pours milk and cracks two eggs in the other bowl, whisks them all together. This is the point where he’d put in cinnamon or vanilla, but his original search for ingredients came up empty for those. _That grocery trip will need to happen sooner than later,_ he thinks with a grimace. If he wants to retain his sanity in this alien land, and all that.

The dishwasher lets off a quiet ping, and he moves to take the contents out and wipe them off. He rummages for a potato peeler, comes up empty and takes a paring knife from the block, and starts peeling the apples in one whole peel each. Harley smiles to himself, all those nicks and cuts from trying to perfect the technique paid off. _Still got it_.

He slices the apples in half and takes out the seeds, supping the juice that runs down his fingers. These particular apples aren't too sour, sweet enough that he won’t need to add more sugar to the batter. The apple scent was pronounced too, tart, kind of honey-sweet. _Means it won’t taste like cardboard, hooray_.

“Alright, how do I use you?” he mutters to the food processor, as he makes quick work of the grater and blade attachment and plugging it in. the cover latches in place. Harley tries it with a single pulse and nearly jumps from how loud it is amidst the stock-still kitchen.

“Christ, calm down,” he scolds the irate appliance. “Good thing no one’s in this floor right now,” and wonders if there’s any way to make the damn thing quieter in the future. He tucks the idea away in the back of his head.

After a minute of trepidation, he shoots the shit and grates the apples in one go. W _ell, it’s way faster than the box grater, at least_ , he thinks as he strains out the excess juice into a cup. 

Soon he’s back to the kitchen island with the food processor container, the dry, and the wet ingredients. He roots around for a whisk, spatula, and a pan. He comes up with the first two, and a non-stick. _score!_  

The non-stick at home was his prized possession, even all the cool stuff that Tony had left him the first time around were second to it. He was disappointed to have to leave it behind, but he hopes that Abbie picks up the cooking bug and makes good use of it.

Anyway, he combines the wet and dry ingredients and remembers to mix _just so_. In layman’s terms, until the batter looks combined but still lumpy. He used to mix it furiously until it was completely smooth, a long time ago. Eventually he found out the pancake’s natural nemesis that is over-developed gluten and has since seen the light. He folds in the grated apples with the spatula and does preliminary clean-up.

He places the used dishes in the sink, and takes out a plate and a turner spatula. The non-stick is on the burner that he wipes down with olive oil (… _really_? They really had to be the cliche rich family about _this_?) before turning the flame on.

Now this is the part that Harley is most intimately familiar with. Mama didn’t pass on the recipe until he was 14 (when she started getting too busy to make pancakes even for special occasions), but he’s been on cooking duty since he was 9. He pours out a helping a bit smaller than what he’d normally do, following the old-ish adage (-ish), _‘the first pancake is always gonna turn out a little bit weird’_. 

The batter hits the pan and immediately sizzles, which he responds to by turning the heat down. The smell of sweet pancake and tart apple start to perfume the air, bringing back memories of early summer mornings and midday birthday celebrations. The corner of his mouth crooks upward as he turns the pancake and flips it.

To his credit, it doesn’t even look that bad. Not perfectly round, but he wasn’t going for a magazine spread or anything. He doesn’t even have butter or syrup to make it instagram-worthy. 

Pour, sizzle, flip. Pour, sizzle, flip. He ends up with the one smaller pancake and 6 bigger pancakes, a few inches out from his palm. The smaller one ends up nestled in his fingers to be eaten, the other 6 end up on the prepared plate. He turns off the stove and sets the pancakes on the island, leaning his elbows on it. Steam comes off it in wisps, bringing the apple pancake-y smell with it.

“Fri, time please.”

“The time is now 4:47AM.”

Harley looks out the windows of the communal lounge, sky still dark in the city that never sleeps. “When’s sunrise?”

“Sunrise begins in 7 minutes.”

Groaning, he takes his arms off the table and stretches, contemplating the fate that will befall the pancakes. He could put these in the fridge for a late breakfast later, or…

“Is anyone else awake right now, Fri?”

“Boss is currently working at the top of the 14th hour of his engineering binge, while young boss will be waking when his alarm goes off in 43 minutes.”

Harley’s brow raises at the amount of information he’s given. “Are you sure I have the security clearance to know these kinds of things?” he asks, moving to rinse off the used utensils in the sink.

“Boss had given Harley Keener security level clearance Beta, the second highest clearance in Stark Tower,” the information makes Harley freeze for a second. First, he came here expecting Tony would tell him to beat it, then nearly crying in his living room, and now he has the second highest clearance level to the biggest eyesore in Manhattan. And he's done it after raiding their kitchen to make pancakes. What?

“…Can I ask why he did that?” he turns off the water and puts the rinsed utensils in the dishwasher, shakes off his hands and wipes them on his jeans.

“It would be more worthwhile to ask boss himself,” Harley makes a noise at the non-answer, but whatever. it’s fine.

“I think I’ll pass,” he turns off the kitchen lights as the first streaks of sunlight peer into the room, taking the plate of pancakes with him to the penthouse.

Harley knows the penthouse kitchen is better stocked than the communal one, but he sees Iron Man and ‘world’s okayest dad’ mugs, the novelty Spongebob spatula, the coffee maker covered in faded stickers. He sees all that as a claim and he’d rather not encroach on it. Especially not when he knows well enough how many unoccupied kitchens there are in the Avengers floors alone. Billionaires probably have some sense of territorial instinct, right? Better not to mess with it, just in case.

What he does instead is leave the pancakes on the kitchen island as a sort of piece offering, scribbling together a note (“sorry, didn’t know where the syrup was. enjoy -h”) for it. He looks for some kind of glass bowl for the thing, and ends up placing a giant tupperware container upside down to cover it.

“Cool, cool,” Harley says to himself, seeing that there isn’t a hair nor hide out of place before slinking away to get some sleep. _Ten past five is a reasonable time to sleep_ , he thinks to himself. _Totally._

 

* * *

 

“Good morning, young boss. The time is now 5:32AM, your itinerary for the da—…” Peter groans and waves FRIDAY’s wake-up call off. He mushes his face into the pillow for a moment, before rolling over and facing reality.

They recently had his bed arranged so sunlight hit his bed (and directly into his eyes, _ugh_ ) to wake him up in the morning. To solve his "not waking up on time" issue. Unless it was a holiday, the weekend, or the Tower was on lockdown, those curtains are not to be closed. _Ever_. Today is no exception.

It’s simultaneously the worst and best thing that’s ever happened to him, really.

He gets up and stretches, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with his palm before walking to his ensuite. “Fri, where’s dad?” the faucet squeaks and in comes a rush of water, which he uses to splash his face to waking.

“Boss is currently in the workshop, halfway through the 14th hour of his engineering binge,” Peter frowns at that as he towels off his face. 

“Meeting didn’t go so well again?” he asks, pulling and putting on a clean shirt from his “ _definitely” still clean_ clothes pile.

“Afraid so. The legal team is making headway with amending the Accords. However, the World Council has been stricter with regards to the status of the rogue Avengers.”

“One step forward, two steps back,” he mutters as he puts on slippers. He walks out to the hallway and into the kitchen, a hand on the wall for support.

What greets him in the kitchen is, surprisingly, not an empty kitchen counter island. There’s a giant plastic box keeping a stack of pancakes warm, with a note on top. _Huh, they’re from_ _Harley_ , the guy dad let live in the Tower after he suddenly showed up at their doorstep.

Still, he has to exercise _some_ caution. “Um,” Peter kind of feels bad for asking. “Are these pancakes safe?” he asks. As though he doesn’t already have utensils and syrup in hand to say ‘ _fuck it_ ’ and let his super-metabolism burn through whatever rat poison might’ve been in it. Pancakes are worth the pain.

“Yes, all ingredients were taken from the penthouse and communal kitchens and was made in an area with complete surveillance coverage.”

“Neat!” he ‘hups’ himself to a stool, drizzles an obscene amount of syrup and digs in. 

You know how sometimes you eat something thinking it’s one thing but it’s really another? Peter’s eyes widen slightly when the clear taste of apple mingles with the pancake and syrup. _At least it’s not raisins instead of chocolate chips_ , is his split-second opinion on the matter, hastily taking another bite. _And I don’t need to take an apple to school_ , evident by lack of two apples in the fruit bowl.

Okay, freshly made pancakes before school might actually be the best thing to happen to him. Top spot, guaranteed. If this is what dad and Harley talked about as some form of payment or rent or something, Peter is 100% here for it.

“Friday, could you tell Harley thanks for the pancakes?”

“Will do, young boss."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Apple Pancakes **   
>  _Courtesy of[The Stay At Home Chef](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cLPZOZBl0BE)_
> 
> **INGREDIENTS:**
> 
>   * 1½ cups all-purpose flour
>   * 2 tablespoons sugar
>   * 2 teaspoons baking powder
>   * 1 teaspoon baking soda
>   * ½ teaspoon salt
>   * 1 1/4 cup milk or buttermilk
>   * 2 large eggs
>   * ¼ cup applesauce
>   * 1/2 cup shredded granny smith apple
> 

> 
> **DIRECTIONS:**
> 
>   1. In a large mixing bowl, sift together flour, sugar baking powder, baking soda, and salt.
>   2. Whisk in milk, eggs, and applesauce just until combined. Stir in shredded apple.
>   3. Preheat a flat griddle over medium-high heat.
>   4. Scoop ¼ cup of pancake batter onto griddle. Let pancakes cook until bubbles form before flipping.
>   5. Cook other side until golden brown. Serve hot with syrup.
> 



	2. right now could last forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter attempts to stop a bank robbery and latches on to the tail end of something big. He meets Harley, properly this time, and they bond over an upside-down cake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from All Time Low's "[A Daydream Away](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UdrJEg8KPxk)".
> 
> This chapter has a smidge of unkind thoughts towards Cap, courtesy of Peter. Nothing too bad, just some things Peter would think, considering the timeline of events.

Peter throws his pencil into the penholder, fistpumping when it lands the mark. He’s finished most of the homework due in the next two weeks, as per the deal he made with his dad, which only means one thing.

He swivels his desk chair to face his closet, which opens to reveal his Spider-man suit at the press of a button. _Time to patrol_.

  


* * *

  


In a way, the suit and Spider-man was freeing. 

Granted, he got into the whole hero-ing business as a way to protect his neighborhood, the borough that he grew up in with May and Ben. He told his dad as much, a few days after he saved Ben from a mugging attempt. Ben made off with a graze and some shock, but he’s alive.

Peter sighs through his mask, imagine if he hadn’t?

He shakes his head to clear the thought away. There’s no more time to think about things like that. Ben is alive and well, he’s at work. Probably just about to come off it, in fact. He’ll be heading to Delmar’s to pick up a post-work sandwich because May might get a cooking bug tonight and they’ll end up ordering takeout again. 

The tension in his shoulders relax a little, as he swings up to a ledge and starts his regular route.

  


* * *

  


_Well, that’s not right_.

It’s some time in the evening now, sunset about an hour back. Street lamps light up as Peter hides in the shadows, head snapping to the direction his senses are pointing him towards.

Towards the Queens Community Bank, across from Delmar’s. _Oh great._

By the time he swings into the front of the bank, they’re already pointing _something_ in one of the tellers. A three-pronged gun-thing that hovers out a chunk of the ATM like some kind of huge magnet. Not to mention they likely had something else to cut that chunk out of the wall. _What the hell?_

He enters through the front door, closes it as quietly as possible. _How are we gonna do this?_ Peter thinks to himself, reminded of that one attempt at D&D Ned roped him into. He leans an arm against the door jamb, places his other hand on his cocked hip.

“Ahem,” he clears his throat. _First impressions, make them count._ “What’s up, guys? Forgot your PIN number?”

All four masked robbers turn to look at the source of the noise (were those _Avengers_ masks? Wow.), and Peter braces for impact. _Roll for initiative!_

“Whoa, you guys are the Avengers!” Peter exclaims as Iron Man with the thus-far regular gun approaches. “Shouldn’t you be off saving the world or something?” He webs up the barrel of the gun and snaps it off Iron Man’s grip, hitting both him and Thor.

Thor tries to elbow him in the chest, but Peter catches it easily, throwing it back towards Hulk. _Up we go!_ He thinks, jumping to attach his hands to the ceiling then throws Thor into the backlit advertising display with his feet. Peter turns himself upside down, _one down._

“Thought you were handsomer in real life, Iron Man,” Peter snorts inwardly at what his mouth ran with. “Aren’t you a billionaire? What are you doing robbing a bank?” he says all this as Iron Man tries in vain to punch his head, but Peter dodges all the attempts effortlessly. “I guess we all need a hobby.”

In the back, Hulk has the bright idea of using one of the other weird-looking guns, a pointed tip at the end glowing purple. Peter catches Iron Man’s fist and throws it back at him, crashing him into Hulk. _That should be two more._

What he doesn’t count on is Captain America with the three-pronged blaster. “Hey!” _Even when you’re not here, why are you being such a pain?_ and suddenly he’s floating in midair encased in a blue forcefield. 

“This is so weird,” Peter says, the force field fuzzing out his voice as he tries to break free from it. Unfortunately, that attempt is in vain as Cap then throws him into the wall (and into Thor, _yikes. I guess this Cap is also into team sabotage_ ) then up and down against the floor and ceiling. “I’m starting to think you guys _aren’t_ the Avengers,” Peter manages to quip.

_Nope, not gonna be a ragdoll just like that!_ Peter sticks his hand on the floor for purchase, then webs the desk behind him and crashes it into the back of Cap’s knees. There’s money flying everywhere as he sticks to the wall, jumps onto Hulk’s back and uses him as a springboard to knock into Thor.

“Well it’s been fun, but I need to get home,” Peter says, throwing a spinning kick on Thor before he can train the gun at him. Iron Man tries to aim the three-pronged forcefield weapon at him again, but he webs that up too. He jumps and sticks to the glass wall beside Iron Man, stretching the mask's elastic band to get a good look at the guy.

“Karen, you seeing this?” Peter says to his AI.

“Indeed, initializing facial recognition,” Karen responds.

“So how are you guys getting tech like this? Sci-fi themed garage sale?” Peter asks, but doesn’t get an answer as he turns his head, purple beam launching from Hulk’s pointed weapon (laser! _laser_ _weapon!_ ) and cutting through the wall.

“No, wait!” Peter exclaims, the same time as Karen is reporting “facial recognition failed”, pulling Thor off the wall and into Hulk. Hulk loses control of the weapon, arcing to the side, up, then around the facade, then straight through… into _Delmar’s_.

Peter runs across the street like a bat out of hell. “Hey!” he calls out to the wreck. “Mr. Delmar? You in here? Is anyone here?” 

The call keys him into a lump of a man crouched behind the counter, coughing and covered in soot and dust. Peter helps him out of the store before any structural integrity gives, him and his cat, too. 

Peter can start to hear sirens wailing in the background. “Here,” he says as he hands over Murph, pained to see the state of the store and makes a note to get that fixed. When he turns back, the bank is heavily damaged with money littering the floor, but not a single criminal in sight.

“Oh, come on,” he groans, before turning back to Delmar. “I gotta—“ he gestures behind him.

Delmar only waves him off. “Go.” 

And so Peter does.

  


* * *

  


Peter finds an alleyway somewhat close to the Tower, all the adrenaline draining out of him as he slackens the suit. He ends up with him leaning against the concrete wall. He’s not too tired, but the gravity of the situation hits him then.

_Where did they get those weapons? There’s definitely more of them. That shouldn’t be happening,_ he thinks, walking towards a discreet metal container. Peter knows where all these weird clothing caches are situated all around the area of the Tower. _Advantages of having an eccentric, paranoid billionaire for a dad_ , he thinks a touch sardonically. 

He remembers the conversation he had with his dad, about him getting home from patrols without compromising Peter’s or Spider-man’s identity. _That_ sure was a fun time. Peter finds the thumbprint scanner in the box and lays a finger on it. “Fingerprint analyzed,” a voice funnels in from the earpiece in his right ear. Another product of dad’s paranoia. “Welcome back, Peter,” it says, opening the lid to give him a fresh set of clothes, shoes, and ID.

He takes them and closes the container and starts to change. Modesty is all but lost on him now, as he stands in an alleyway in just his boxers. “Incoming call from Tony ‘Iron Dad’ Stank,” and Peter curses. Dad was always a bit tender about him coming home from patrols, especially now since he started keeping track of Peter’s vitals. That  last run-in with a bomb in an office building shook things up a bit.

“Hi dad,” he greets as he puts on pants, keeping his tone as casual as possible. “What’s up?” 

“Everything good with you, kiddo?” Peter loves his dad, he really does, but the amount of paranoia he has towards Peter’s wellbeing can get stifling. He didn’t even get hurt this time! “Karen was reporting a bunch of things going awry where you were earlier.”

“I’m fine, dad,” he huffs out, shrugging on a shirt then putting his hoodie on. “Just a bank robbery. Had to let them get away, though. Delmar’s got hit,” he reports with a frown. He can hear his dad hum from the other side, as he pockets his suit and ID into his jacket.

“I’ll make sure to get an anonymous donation in,” Tony says, frown evident. “You sure you’re okay, Pete? Nothing we need to talk about right now?”

Peter can only sigh, rubbing his forehead with one of his palms as he starts walking towards the Tower. Yes, he really should be telling his dad about the weird alien tech that some everyday bank robbers happen to have, but a few hours of rest would do him some good. _I sure hope it does_. He doesn't really want to face dad loopy from no sleep. “I’m just tired, dad. I’ll talk to you about it tomorrow.”

The glow of Stark Tower feels monolithic and all-encompassing from where he’s standing. “Okay. I’ll hold you to that. Get home safe, love you.”

“Love you too,” Peter has to bite back a sigh. At the end of the day, his dad’s just looking out for him. Loving someone enough to protect them isn’t a crime.

He shakes his head, shoves his hands into his pockets, and walks back home.

  


* * *

  


_Back at it again at Krispy Kreme,_ Harley thinks.

Okay. It’s not like he actively seeks out cooking at odd hours in the evening. He was passing by the penthouse kitchen and saw that the fruit bowl has bananas, and that got the cogs turning. It didn’t hurt to know that he got the communal kitchen restocked with more common ingredients for baking, either. The idea came over him like a dog latching on to a bone and didn’t let go.

The time thing is because he got caught up in Tony’s workshop looking through all the things he wants him to work on. Harley can get more sleep after he gets _this_ particular idea out of his head. Totally rational and again, more food for later when he’s awake to appreciate it. Win-win.

That’s why he’s in the communal kitchen again with a bunch of ingredients: flour, leaveners, sugar, milk, butter, eggs, and requisite bananas. He still doesn’t have extra little things like condiments and spices, but he’ll figure that out when he gets to it.

Thus far he’s claimed the communal kitchen as his own, too. (Not that there's really anyone else to steal it from, but whatever.) He has free reign and can do whatever as long as it isn’t grievous property damage or something. Not that he’d do that. 

Maybe. Billionaires have things like property insurance, right?

He has his phone propped up on a [makeshift stand made with rubber bands and pencils](https://www.zulius.com/img/blog/iphone-pencil-stand/done-portrait-large.jpg), screen detailing the portions of this particular recipe. Baking just wasn’t one of those things he’d particularly want to eyeball. Dangerous electrical equipment and a mad scientist-esque thought popping up at four in the afternoon, sure! But baking? That's serious business.

Harley starts by turning on the oven to preheat, rummaging the cabinets for two bowls, a whisk, a spatula, and some kind of cake pan. Oh, a chopping board and a paring knife too.

He’s back to his quiet place again, of measuring and mixing and pouring. Simple things that get him back to baseline calmness. 

He microwaves a half-stick of butter and pours it into the cake pan. He also dumps in brown sugar and mixes, then tamping it down into one smooth surface. He peels two less-ripe bananas and slices them into discs, laying them out in a grid on top of the brown sugar layer.

Slice, place, slice, place. He’s not entirely sure why he doesn’t just slice the whole banana first before putting it in. Might be left over from when he let sliced bananas sit a bit too long and they turned mushy and brown and gross. It became a smoothie in the end, but still. Gross.

“Hey,” a voice breaks the silence, making Harley jump before whirling around — knife still in hand — to find the source of the sound. “Hey, hey, sorry!” His eyes eventually land on one Peter Stark standing on the other side of the kitchen island. He also looks like he’s just startled a spooked deer. Which, to his credit, was probably what Harley looked like to him right now.

“Sorry,” Peter apologizes again. “I uh…” he sheepishly rubs his nape. “I was awake and could hear someone downstairs. Thought I should, check it out, and stuff," voice entirely unsure, eyes downcast. Peter’s wearing an oversized MIT sweatshirt and pajama pants, both looking like they swallow him whole.

“No problem,” Harley says with a nod. “Just don’t startle a guy with a knife,” he waves it around as a warning, before putting it down to slice again.

“Yep, got that the first time,” there’s a tightness there that Harley can’t place, but the note passes quick when Peter helps himself on a stool. “Whatcha making?”

Harley tilts his head, making the last few slices fit in a corner clearly fit for just one. “Banana upside-down cake. I saw there were bananas in the kitchen upstairs and got the idea.”

Peter nods understandingly, like a padawan receiving sage advice. “So that’s where the fruits've been going. You made the apple pancakes too, right?”

Harley nods. “Yep. I thought there’d be some left over when I woke up, those were pretty big pancakes,” he looks up at Peter, whose eyes widen before shrinking to accommodate that sheepish grin again.

“Sorry. My fault. I have a,” he pauses. “Big appetite?”

“I get that. Do you want the leftover slices?” Harley offers up the chopping board, sliding it across the table.

“Heck yeah,” Peter picks up several in his hand and gleefully digs in. Harley doesn’t comment on how weird that looks, all the mushed banana in the space between his fingers. “Do you need help with anything? Nothing too hard though, dad says I can burn water.”

“I never understood that,” Harley comments, brows furrowing at the declaration. “Water is a liquid, it boils. And cooking isn’t that hard,” he moves on from the topic before Peter tries to explain that hallmark of cooking ineptitude. “Most people tend to fail because they don’t follow instructions. Or because of some outside circumstances, 'cause they chose to make macarons on a cloudy day.”

Peter can only shrug. “The only instructions I follow are on LEGO kits. Even then, they’re just guidelines.”

Harley moves to peel the more ripe bananas into the smaller bowl. “That’s what cooking is, taking a bunch of ingredients that work and eyeballing it. Recipes are just guides. Baking is more precise,” he places a fork in the bowl and hands it over to Peter. “You can help by mashing these.”

“You got it, captain,” Peter mock-salutes before mashing the bananas with the concentration of a 5-year-old doing astrophysics. Harley only rolls his eyes as he moves to measure out the wet ingredients in the bigger bowl. “I didn’t know you feel so strongly about cooking.”

“It’s just one of those things. Not to go all Ratatouille on you, but _anyone can cook_ ,” Harley says as he pours out ingredients into measuring cups. “Some might need more help than others, but that applies to most everything, really.”

Peter hums. “I might be one of the latter, then,” he says with a cheeky smile. Harley huffs neutrally as is his way of acknowledgment. The conversation trails to silence.

The sound of fork hitting bowl is the only thing Harley can hear in the quiet floor. He can cook in silence, but some days he can’t stand it. Today is one of them. “Do you have some kind of low-energy playlist to play when it’s this late?” he asks.

Peter looks up from the half-mashed banana massacre. “Hm, dad usually plays way loud music in the workshop at any hour of the day. Don’t think that counts, though. We could ask Fri to spin something up for us?”

“Sure,” Harley says as he whisks softened butter to a creamy consistency.

“Fri, you heard Harley. Play us something good,” Peter says. FRIDAY doesn’t say anything in response, instead the [sounds of a strummed electric guitar](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fekWiU3K_e0) play mutedly through the wall speakers.

“Oh heck yes, I love this song!” Peter exclaims in recognition, bopping his head to the beat. Harley can’t say the song's bad, either. It’s relaxing, like a sunny day at a boardwalk. He pours in measured amounts of sugar, milk, and cracks an egg into the bowl, then whisks them all together.

“I’m done!” Peter flourishes the bowl with his free hand, a proud smile on his face. Harley looks it over to see if anything’s left a bit too whole. There isn’t.

“Good job,” he says, nodding with a slight smile. “I think that’s the only thing I needed help with. Are you gonna stay until it’s all done or are you gonna get some sleep?” He’s dimly aware that Peter has school and should be asleep at some point if it's a school night. Calendars are a mystifying invention.

“I can stay,” Peter says. “It’s Saturday tomorrow,” he stretches, interlaced fingers high above his head. The consequence of that action is that Harley can see a strip of skin from the lifted shirt, and he has to look away. He concentrates on sifting the flour and leaveners into the bowl before folding those all together.

“Just don’t end up eating the entire cake by yourself,” Harley teases, folding in the mashed bananas into the batter. “I think Tony would appreciate tasting the stuff I make with the ingredients I steal from his kitchen.”

Peter makes a face. “It was _one_ time. I didn’t know it was for more than one person! Dad doesn’t even have breakfast that often.”

“He doesn’t?” Harley tilts his head. Almost immediately, ideas of make-ahead breakfasts pop into his head. _See a need, fill a need_. “Well, I hope he likes banana cake for breakfast, then.”

Peter nods. “Yeah, dad’ll eat anything you put in front of him. He even drank one of DUM-E’s milkshakes once, even though he knew he had motor oil in it,” he smiles at the memory.

“That sounds unhealthy,” Harley comments, spreading the batter on the prepared cake pan with a spatula. The song fades out in the background, [replaced with soft piano](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ycy30LIbq4w).

“Fri bangin’ out the tunes,” Peter grins, mouthing along to the new song. “I think she’s taking music from my playlist,” he turns to look at Harley. “Have you tried playing songs on FRIDAY yet?”

Harley shakes his head. “Been playing them on my old phone. Wasn’t sure if I could,” he waves his hand to the free area. “Do that kind of thing.”

Peter looks at him incredulously. “You _live_ here now! Technically you can do anything!” he pauses, raises a finger. “Except like, property damage. Or illegal things instated by laws that make sense.”

Harley raises an eyebrow at that last statement, before realizing once again precisely who he is talking to. “Yep, you and Tony are definitely related.” He moves to put the pan in the oven, setting a timer for 30 minutes.

“What for? Avoiding property damage?” Peter asks, curious.

Harley turns back around, gathering the used utensils into the big bowl. “Selective disregard for laws,” he waves a hand towards Peter’s stricken face, though he doesn’t know _why_ Peter suddenly got antsy. “I mean,” Harley backtracks. “Tony has it, at least. Jury’s out on you, still.”

Minutely, Peter relaxes. “Yep. Totally. Minor, means I can’t be trialed as an adult yet and all.” His tone is strained, grip on the counter a bit tighter than necessary. Is it cracking?

Harley nods, as neutral as he can make it. “Exactly.”

Because Peter’s reaction wasn’t suspicious at _all_.

  


* * *

  


Harley’s already pacing when the timer is down to the last 3 minutes.

“That cake’s not gonna go anywhere, especially not if you’re stalking around it like some kinda dragon protecting its hoard,” Peter looks on, amused.

Harley, deep in thought, looks up. “Huh? No, I just have to keep watch because sometimes the caramel burns if I leave it in there long enough,” granted, that’s not what he’s thinking about right now (his brain is a host to several mechanical contraptions and possibly physics-defying experiments at the moment) but the memory of a wasted cake returns to the forefront. “I know you said you and Tony would eat anything put in front of you, but burnt caramel ain’t good, hon.”

Peter’s eyebrows raise at the term of endearment, willing his cheeks not to turn pink at the sound of it. “I’ll trust your instinct,” he squeaks out. _Subtle, Pete_. Harley returns to his pacing, unaware that he even said the petname. _Maybe he says that to everyone?_ _Yeah. Probably._

FRIDAY, as though she reads Peter’s mind, starts playing the [first few notes of a violin solo with a bossa nova band](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W_iCltU31Lc). Peter tries really hard not to comment on that. _FRIDAY, why?_

Soon though, Harley’s timer goes off and he already has mittened hands reaching in to take the steaming pan of banana cake goodness. The caramel and banana scents are coming off in wafts, and Peter can’t help but wish he could dig into it right now.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Harley says, and Peter panics, hoping Harley isn’t some kind of mutant mind-reader. Not that there’d be anything bad about that. But still! “But this cake would taste better if you let it cool for a few minutes,” _oh_. “Trust me, the smell is unbearably good, but the burnt tongue from hot sugar is not worth it.”

“Pfffft,” Peter says instead. “Why do you think I’d do that? I’m not that dumb.”

Harley levels him a dry look to rival the Mojave. “Sure, Jan.” Then he reaches to the drying rack and wipes off the paring knife. He loosens the edges of the cake by running the knife along the sides of the pan, and preparing a square plate beside it. Then he sets a timer for 5 minutes.

“Gotta let the cake cool until I can handle it without mittens,” Harley says by way of explanation. _I could probably handle it right now if I tried_ , Peter thinks, but then. _No, not yet_. 

Let it be known that he was really really tempted though.

They end up idling by the kitchen counter for the 5 minutes. Peter itches for his stim, [a lanyard with wooden beads](https://static1.squarespace.com/static/542c1cb5e4b0a8c50e8d3374/542c2f85e4b0192a619b1700/57e409182994ca7c24c035e8/1549385789776/keychain+bead4.png?format=1500w) to roll his fingers through or lengthen with its stretchy thread. Harley, for the most part, looks outwardly calm, but can’t stop drumming his fingers on the table. It’s like those 300 seconds stretch into an eternity because they’re thinking too hard about it.

In the background, the TV is automatically muted when both Peter and Harley left the area, but bright colors and special effects still bloom on the screen. The playlist has moved on to a [chill beat and windchime-like instruments](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hZmaoIyE7xo), another one of Peter’s favorites by the look of recognition on his face. Harley finds himself bopping along to this one, too.

His timer goes off, _finally_ , and Harley puts the plate upside down on the cake pan. It’s still a bit warm, so he opts to keep one hand covered while his uncovered hand tests for temperature. With a huff, he turns the entire thing upside down and uses his covered hand to whack the bottom of the thing, until he feels a weight slight down into the plate.

“Well, I hope this turns out okay,” Harley gingerly lifts off the pan and… “Voila!”

On the plate is a steaming hot banana cake, white wisps of smoke evident in the cold room. And, lucky him, none of the banana had stuck to the bottom of the pan. Internally, Harley fist pumps at the gorgeous looking cake. 

“ _Oh my gooooood_ ,” Peter groans out the elongated vowels. “That looks _so gooooood_ …” He pouts at Harley with a deadly force, request clear on his face. “Can I have a slice now?”

Harley has to narrow his eyes to even try to resist it. Half to intimidate and half to fuzz out his vision so he doesn’t see Peter’s puppy eyes. “You’ll burn your tongue and then I’ll have to be the one hearing you whine about it until it gets better,” the rational part of Harley’s brain, the singular brain cell that is somehow operating under Peter’s pleading gaze, tells Peter. But eventually, he caves. Kinda. “You can have a slice in 10 minutes.”

“Why not nooooow?” Peter whines.

“So the caramel solidifies a bit more and becomes more gooey than syrupy,” Harley shrugs. “I prefer it like that. And it’s warm but not hot. If you put ice cream on top it would melt,” Harley hums, wiggling his hand noncommittally, “hmm, marginally less than if you put it on immediately.” At Peter’s slump, Harley shoots the shit and lifts Peter’s chin up with the clean end of the spatula.

“Hey,” Harley says, eyes locking, heart thudding in his chest. He’s almost certain Peter could hear it from how fast and loud it was going. “Chin up, sugar. It won’t take that long.” 

Peter _could’ve_ heard Harley’s heartbeat, had he not been so preoccupied with his own. Between the two, the silence is deafening. The few seconds where they saw each other ticked by like separate, subsequent eternities. The only tell of time passing are the speakers [playing a strummed acoustic guitar](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sX-rFdZtdY4). 

One second, then two, then Harley pulls away the spatula. He turns around and runs the cake pan over lukewarm water. For a second, Peter can’t quite move, just preoccupied with that come on that made him stop breathing for a moment. He draws in a quiet breath before training his eyes on the cake. Just the cake. Not Harley. Not the charming, cute, intelligent guy just a few feet away from him.

Nope. He’ll wait out those ten minutes, get his cake, then go to his room. That’s the plan now. Can do, will do.

_A dream needs believing…_

Fuck. Thanks, Fri. Peter can feel his cheeks burning as he stares at the counter, flexing his fingers so they don’t end up breaking the marble. He only ever gets so jittery and out of control like this.

The ten minutes do eventually pass, and their heartbeats calm down to a manageable rate. Harley hacks off a particularly big slice and slides it on a plate for Peter. He also plates up a slice half as big and places forks on each of them. “Did you want ice cream on top of yours?”

“Uhh,” Peter tries to recall the last time they even had ice cream in the house, which was not very recent. “Sure?”

Harley nods. “Cool,” he turns back around to the fridge and takes out a pint of vanilla he got FRIDAY to order. There’s several in there, half for desserts and half just for snacking on. _Note to self, label some. Or keep some in a minifridge in my room_. 

“What’s your favorite flavor?” Harley asks as he warms up a spoon under hot water. “Mine is pretty obvious,” he gestures to the pint on the table, back still turned.

Peter hums in thought. “Probably mint chocolate chunk. Like, specifically chunks,” he wildly gestures with his hands. “Chocolate chips are great, but dad and I discovered this really good handmade ice cream that uses slave-free bittersweet chocolate in generous half-chunks, and it crunches in your mouth in like, the most cathartic way possible,” he nods to himself at the memory. “That’s some good stuff. Haven’t had it in a while though.”

“Why not?” Harley asks, topping Peter’s slice with two healthy scoops of ice cream. Then he closes up the container and returns it to the freezer.

Peter opens his mouth, then closes it again. _Oh, no reason. Other than getting enhanced by an illegal OsCorp experiment, seeing your dad almost die with a nuke strapped to his back, almost failing to save your uncle from a mugger, and now swooping across Queens as some kind of spider-themed vigilante. The usual._ “Been busy,” he chokes out, the memories of more recent events coming back with a vengeance. He clears his throat. “You don’t put ice cream on yours?”

“Nope,” Harley pops the ‘p’, ignoring the blatant topic change. _If Peter doesn’t want to talk about it, I won’t push._ “I tend to eat dessert slowly,” he says this as he takes a fork to the cake, tearing off a corner. “Ice cream melts and isn’t as fun to eat when it’s soup,” he chews on the piece, inhaling as he does. “Oh, that’s good.”

Peter puffs his chest out. “Clearly made better because of how well I mashed those bananas.” He feels a little bit silly, but damn him and his pride.

But, to his credit, Harley humors him. He flashes a blinding smile and nods. “Definitely. Wouldn’t be the same without you, sweetheart.”

Internally, Peter feels like he’s been shot with a burst of sunshine. It takes him a lot not to stagger back and act as if he did, instead manifesting his happiness in a big smile of his own, before digging into his own portion. Harley huffs and tilts his head like he's wearing a Stetson, trying to hide his own smile as he shakes his head.

Harley makes his way to the living room with his plate, returning to the neglected Doctor Who marathon playing on the TV. They had lost track of the episodes while they were waiting for the cake to finish, instead spending the time playing an introductory game of 20 Questions. They found out each other’s favorite colors, birthdays, favorite animal, and even favorite fruit for Peter’s case. He also managed to finagle Peter’s opinion on coffee vs tea (ultimately hot cocoa in the end) and if he had anything he didn’t particularly want to eat. 

He reclines on the sofa, propping his legs up on the free seat and resting his plate on his lap. The screen shows the Tenth Doctor improvising Shakespeare at the Globe Theatre. Peter sits idly by the kitchen counter, taking bites out of his hefty chunk of cake.

The scene is weirdly domestic, but it doesn’t actually feel that weird at all. He tilts his head back and shouts at Peter, who seems to have lost himself in reverie. “Save some for your dad! He’ll appreciate having breakfast.”

“ _One_ time!”

  


* * *

  


Later, Harley walks into the workshop carrying a tray.

“Uh, what the hell is this?” Tony says, rubbing his eyes wearily as Harley sets a tray down. There’s a plate of cake topped with bananas and caramel and a steaming mug of coffee in a “If dad can’t fix it, it’s fucked” mug.

“Breakfast,” Harley explains, presenting the tray with a flourish. “I couldn’t sleep, Peter was up, so we made cake.”

Tony eyes Harley, eyes marginally narrowing at the mention of his son. _Peter didn’t go straight to bed last night._

Harley notices the stare and raises his hands in surrender. “We just made cake! And had a little Doctor Who marathon while it was cooking. Jesus, I’m not _that_ kinda guy, Stark,” he crosses his arms, divulging information Tony really _didn’t_ need to know. “Gotta wine and dine first,” he says with a slight smirk.

Tony was in the middle of eating when Harley says that, and nearly chokes on his food. Tony settles for glaring at him to show his ire, and then an “I absolutely did not need to know that while I was eating.” when he can afterwards. Harley isn’t sure how Tony manages to look so menacing while his cheeks are stuffed like a chipmunk.

Then Harley shrugs. “Let me know what your coffee preference is next time. Peter’s kind of a lost cause in that department,” he remembers seeing Peter dump in _way too much sugar_ and filling half of his mug with milk. Harley’s sure that doesn’t even _count_ as coffee anymore. He shakes his head at the memory, huffing in amusement.

“Peter’s having coffee?” Tony asks, drumming his hands on the desk. _He only has coffee when he needs to calm down._

“Yeah,” Harley resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Try to keep up with the program, I can see you getting white hairs from here,” he presses a hand to his own temple, though Tony doesn’t actually have any grey there.

Then he turns on his heel and walks back to the elevator. “Gonna head to bed now. See you later, old man,” he throws a two-fingered mock-salute back at Tony.

“Are you sure I shouldn’t have hired you as a personal chef instead?” Tony manages to retort as Harley walks away.

The salute becomes a middle finger as the elevator doors close behind him.

  


* * *

  


Even later, Tony texts him “black, 2 tsp white sugar”. Harley rolls his eyes and starts his day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** FRS_M071217_PPS **   
>  Youtube | Spotify
> 
>   1. Magic Ways - Tatsuro Yamashita 🎵
>   2. Lost in Japan - Shawn Mendes 🎵
>   3. Guillotine - Jon Bellion ft. Travis Mendes
>   4. On The Wing - Owl City
>   5. Spirits - The Strumbellas
>   6. Beautiful - Virginia to Vegas
>   7. Everything Stays - The Marcus Hedges Trend Orchestra
>   8. Enough To Go By - Vienna Teng
>   9. Scars To Your Beautiful / All Time Low - VoicePlay ft. J.None
>   10. Stuck In The Middle - Boys Like Girls
>   11. Someone New - Hozier
>   12. No Way No - MAGIC!
>   13. Can’t Sleep Love - Pentatonix ft. Tink
>   14. Honeybee - Steam Powered Giraffe
>   15. Sunflower - Scott Bradlee’s Postmodern Jukebox 🎵
>   16. Thumbnail - Louie Zong ft. Brian David Gilbert 🎵
>   17. Soft Place To Land - Sara Bareilles 🎵
> 

> 
>   
> 
> 
> * * *
> 
>   
>  ** Upside-Down Banana Cake **   
>  _Courtesy of[Hot Chocolate Hits](https://www.hotchocolatehits.com/2017/07/upside-down-banana-cake.html)_
> 
> **INGREDIENTS:**
> 
> _For the Upside-Down Topping_
> 
>   * 1/4 cup (55g) butter, melted
>   * 2/3 cup (65 g) brown sugar
>   * 1/2 tsp ground cinnamon
>   * 2 medium-sized bananas (don't need to be ripe)
> 

> 
> _For the Cake_
> 
>   * 1/2 cup (110 g) butter (oil works fine too!)
>   * 1/2 cup (100 g) sugar (brown/white/raw work)
>   * 1 egg
>   * 1 tsp vanilla extract
>   * 1 cup (250 mL) natural yogurt (or buttermilk)
>   * 1-2 medium-sized ripe bananas, mashed
>   * 1 tsp baking soda
>   * 1 tsp baking powder
>   * 1/2 tsp salt
>   * 1-1/2 cups (180 g) all-purpose flour
> 

> 
> **DIRECTIONS:**
> 
>   1. Preheat the oven to 180 C (350 F) and butter an 8 or 9 inch pan. I used a square pan but a circle works too! 
>   2. In the pan, add the melted butter, sugar and cinnamon and stir to combine.
>   3. Gently spread the sugar-butter mixture so that it coats the bottom of the baking pan evenly.
>   4. Slice the bananas (for the topping) into 1/2 cm slices (1/4 inch).
>   5. Gently lay the banana slices atop the sugar mixture. The thicker the slices, the less chance that they will stick to the bottom of the pan, so make sure you aren't cutting them too thin.
>   6. Set the tray aside while you prepare the cake batter.
>   7. To make the cake, combine the butter and sugar.
>   8. Add in the egg, vanilla, followed by the yogurt and mashed banana.
>   9. Sprinkle atop the baking soda, baking powder and salt, then gently mix in. You could also combine these ingredients with the flour, which is probably more effective. 
>   10. Pour the batter over the sliced bananas and spread evenly.
>   11. Bake the cake for 30-35 min or until a toothpick inserted comes out clean.
>   12. While the cake is still hot, loosen the edges by running a knife through the edges, and gently nudging the cake to loosen it from the bottom as you do this.
>   13. Flip the cake onto a serving plate or surface, and tap the bottom of the pan to release.
>   14. If you wait too long to flip the cake, you might have difficulties taking it out of the pan, as the caramelised butter and sugar comprising the upside-down part may solidify.
>   15. Serve warm, with some ice cream or whipping cream. Or plain!
> 



	3. in orbit all the way around you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Tony talk about what Peter discovered. Harley gets out of the house and meets Ned and MJ, restocks the kitchen, then makes dinner with Peter. Tony investigates, then reaches a compromise with Peter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from Lena Meyer-Landrut's "[Satellite](https://youtu.be/8QSgNM9yNjo)".
> 
> Chapter warning: the **recipe of the chapter contains meat**. There are no descriptions of butchering, but the dish is neither vegetarian nor vegan-friendly without substitutions.
> 
> Also, I have never seen Iron Man 3 nor have I been to New York in my life. Any glaring inconsistencies with MCU canon or American geography are my own.

The workshop was filled with so much tension that even DUM-E could cut it with a poorly-angled knife.

“I’m not allowing— No, I’m _expressly_ forbidding you to go after these weapons again,” Tony’s tone and stature are resolute, standing tall with his arms crossed.

“But dad—!” Peter cries, arms out.

“No,” Tony holds a palm out like he’s using his repulsor, flat and straight up. “Hold it right there. Pete, you could’ve gotten seriously injured. These weapons are from god-knows-where and are in the hands of people who have nothing to lose. Hell, they could—“ Tony chokes up, but they both know what he doesn’t say. “Don’t you understand that?”

Peter sighs, eyes to the ceiling. “I handled it fine! They didn’t get even get a scratch on me.”

Tony massages the bridge of his nose with his hand, other hand on his hip. “Pete, I saw the footage,” after Harley had left him with breakfast, Tony had gone through the recording of the fight that Karen had gotten and wasn’t happy with what he saw. “They threw you around like some kind of toy! You might be able to handle bigger hits, but you’re not supposed to be taking hits like that in the first place.”

Peter looks at Tony dead in the eye then, lips pursed and head tilted. An image of an airport passes through their heads, before Peter mutters. “I can stop them if you’d just let me handle it.”

“No, no, definitely not,” Tony’s words are clipped, every shake of his head tense and short. “This is something I have to take care of,” _especially since these weapons look like they were hacked off alien ships, and wasn’t the DoDC supposed to take care of that?_ “It’s only right that I do.”

Tony crosses the room to open up another holoscreen, done with the conversation. Peter isn’t having it. “But!” Peter shoots out his arms. “You’re already busy with the Accords and getting the Rogues back!” He puts up two fingers. “Not to mention Iron Man and Spider-Man maintenance and running SI’s R&D!” he ends up with four up.

Peter crosses his arms, a worried crease in his forehead. “I can’t just sit back and let you do that, now that I know I can do more to help.”

Tony places both palms on the table he’s standing in front of, sighing. “This isn’t just fun and games, Peter!” he turns his head around to look at him. “This isn’t another training simulation or objective in one of your video games. You could get seriously injured, you could _die!_ ” He ends up shouting the last word, curling his hands to fists.

“I can’t let that happen,” his tone is resigned, quiet and curling in on itself. “Not while I’m still here.”

And Peter, Peter just can’t stand for that. “Was that what you were thinking of when you were flying that nuke up to space, then?” he asks, defiant but eyes shining with tears. He has his arms crossed, shoulders hunched. The Battle of New York is still a touchy subject, even after all this time.

Tony turns around, jaw set and back leaning on the table edge. His lip twitches, slight. “That was different,” he says after a few moments, the sound strangled.

“Dad,” Peter starts, lip wobbling. “I was 11. I was so scared in the safe house because you weren’t there. I had to see you from the TV. I had to listen to Aunt Pep cry her eyes out on Uncle Rhodey’s shoulder because you chose to make the sacrifice play all by yourself,” he shakes his head, eyes pinched close as he tries not to cry, fists balled up close to his sides. He still remembers the audio from when they patched dad in to the house speakers, a call where Tony thought he’d never come home.

Tony’s protective instincts well up like a brewing storm, as he walks towards his son. “Peter, I—“

“No,” it’s Peter’s turn to hold his palm out now, fingers wide apart and curling slightly. “Please, just listen to me for a second. After that, you and Uncle Bruce ended up making Ultron because you thought you had to protect Earth all by yourself, instead of asking for help.”

Tony steps back like he’s been burnt. “I had to do it,” he grinds out. “The threats out there— There’s bigger forces out there than the Avengers can possibly fight against!”

“I know!” Peter remembers nights when he’d curl up in his dad’s bed because he’s having a nightmare and can’t seem to wake up. “But that’s not what I’m saying! I’m saying, please. Let someone help. Not everything has to be a burden you shoulder on your own,” his voice cracks, and a single tear falls.

There’s a long trail of silence after that.

“I could,” Tony says eventually, tone hesitant. “But it can’t be you. Not my own son. You could get hurt. I can’t let that happen,” his sentences are clipped and stilted, he’s wringing his wrists, an anxiety attack unfolding. Peter crosses the threshold and puts himself into Tony’s arms.

“Dad,” Peter tucks his head under his dad’s chin, as Tony wraps his arms around him tighter. _He hasn’t spiraled yet. That’s good._ “Other than War Machine, _I’m_ the one you outfitted with the most protocols and features through the suit. You’ve been looking out for me since Day 1, when you brought Uncle Bruce in after OsCorp. What use would all of that care be if I stayed at home all day?”

“You’d be giving your father less heart attacks, for one,” Tony mutters, which Peter snorts at.

His voice muffles as he presses his face into Tony’s chest, smells of expensive cologne and grease and coffee. “I know you love me, and you’re protecting me every way you can, but I want to help. Can’t you trust me with this?”

They stand there for a while, the familiar embrace making Tony rock Peter back and forth, a lullaby humming in the back of his throat. _Fai la ninna, fai la nanna…_

He knows Peter can feel his heartbeat and starts to take a few breaths to calm down. Tony threads a hand through Peter’s hair, grounding himself back in reality. His little bambino is growing up, faster than he can keep up with, if he could only turn back time. He presses a kiss to Peter’s hair, sighing.

“Could you give me some— some time to think about this?” he drops his grip so he can hold Peter’s forearms, gently pushing him back so they can look at each other. The same brown eyes, flecked with gold. “Go get Harley and get him out of the tower or something. I need to think this over.”

Peter stares into Tony’s eyes, searching for something. 

“Fine,” Peter concedes after a long moment. “But we need to keep talking about this, please,” his eyes are pleading, desperate. _This conversation isn’t over yet._ “You’re not alone, dad. Not this time around.”

Tony nods, looking at the ceiling as he pulls Peter back into a hug. “I know, kid. I know,” Peter’s arms curl up around his waist and up into his back, palms outstretched. “How could I have raised such a wonderful kid like you?”

He can feel a smile grow on Peter’s face, where a cheek is leaning on his arm. “Pretty sure you had help on that front.”

Tony ruffles Peter’s hair. “You think I couldn’t have handled single parenthood? Hurt, Pete.”

Peter snorts. “I’m sure you could’ve handled me all by your lonesome, but I’m _also_ sure you appreciated the help you got anyway.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “If I have to admit it,” he groans, exaggerated, a smile tugging at his lips. “But, when you’re right, you’re right. I did appreciate it. Still do,” his smile grows, fond.

They stand there for a few more minutes, content. Or rather, content until Peter starts trying to escape Tony’s grasp.

“Uh, dad?”

“Yeah?”

“In order for me to get Harley out of the house, I would also need the ability to get out of the house.”

“Or I could make you stay here forever, as per my evil plans.”

“ _Dad!_ ”

  


* * *

  


Harley is nursing a scowl and a mug of coffee when Peter happens upon him in the penthouse kitchen. 

Peter realizes this is the first time he’s actually seen Harley in the morning. On a regular day he’d be in school and then back when Harley woke up at midday. “Not a morning person, huh?”

“Nope,” Harley pops the ‘p’, taking a long sip of his coffee. He’s staring at nothing in particular, cogs still unsticking and trying to click and turn in his head. “Woke up to ugly blaring about a half hour ago, been trying to wake up since. Did Tony tell you what’s gonna happen today?”

Peter, who had just gotten back after spending time with his dad in the basement workshop, squinted, tilted his head, then shook it. “I have an idea, but dad didn’t really say anything to me, no.”

Harley holds up a black credit card between two fingers as he drinks the rest of his coffee in one go. “Apparently you need babysitting. And that I need to get out of the Tower. And to make friends that aren’t mechanical,” he stands and rinses his mug before putting it in the dishwasher, pocketing the card.

“Wow, I don’t count as a friend?” Peter says when he realizes it. _Thanks, dad,_ he thinks, annoyance at the fringes.

“I think he meant other human friends that aren’t my boss and his kid,” Harley says, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “The boss’ kid’s friends is enough degrees of separation to be considered other people, right?”

“Totally?” Peter shrugs, then Harley pushes himself off the counter to head off. 

“Gonna take a shower. Be ready in like,” Peter can hear the murmured _fuck, I dunno_ , even as Harley is walking away. “15 minutes? Hell, anyway, babysitter is not a babysitter without a baby to sit, so chop chop!”

Peter huffs, opting to make hot chocolate as kind-of breakfast this morning. Then he nearly chokes on his beverage. “Wait! Aren’t you just a year older than me? I don’t need a babysitter!”

  


* * *

  


“You look kinda like a serial killer like that, you know,” Peter comments on Harley’s demeanor, all hunched and sunglasses and leather jacket. Completely unlike any person Peter would try to be friends with.

“It’s New York, who cares?” is what Harley retorts with, moving to eat his hotdog menacingly. How he manages to do that, Peter doesn’t know, but Harley just _does._ Peter feels like he should be more concerned about this, but… nah.

“ _I_ cares,” _proper grammar be damned._ “Hunching over like that isn’t good for your back in the long run.”

Harley pauses, before shrugging and reclines on the seating. He’s more loose-limbed and sprawled out this way, but he’s still carrying a knot of tension from being in an unfamiliar environment. It looks better than being some kind of super secret assassin, though. Always on guard for the next threat. Peter inwardly winces at the memory of Natasha before shaking his head.

“Hey Peter!” Ned’s voice brings him out of his reverie, and there’s him and MJ walking up to the sidewalk café. “Sorry we’re late, there was a park on the way and there were so many dogs out for walks, it was amazing.”

“The only reason why I get up before 10 on the weekend,” MJ comments before tilting her chin towards Harley’s direction. “You gonna introduce us, Peter?”

“Oh! Guys, this is Harley. Harley Keener. He moved from Tennessee and is an actual SI intern,” Peter presents him with a flourish. “Also, an excellent cook.”

“Neat! Do you actually get to do top-secret SI R&D stuff? You test out the newest StarkPhones? That’s so cool! Oh, oh! Do you make weapons for the Avengers? Like Iron Man and Captain America? Oh my god, this means you talk to Mr. Stark on like a daily basis, doesn’t it?” Peter’s guy friend asks all of that in one breath, Harley’s lung capacity aches in sympathy.

“Oh my god, Ned— Sorry, this is my friend Ned Leeds,” Peter sidles up and throws a hand over Ned’s shoulders. “He’s a teensy bit of a chatterbox, but we’ve been friends for basically ever.”

“Not a problem, I think I can see how you and Peter get along,” Harley nods, pushing out some seats with his feet. “Have a seat, y’all, don’t wanna end up looking like the only one sitting at a standing room only event,” when they get seated, that’s when Harley answers the questions. 

“So, 1: yes, 2: aren’t half of them like, war criminals now?, and 3: yes, this means I get to talk to Tony on a daily basis. Almost too frequent of a basis, if you ask me.” Ned’s eyes get comically wider with every answer, and Harley can only shake his head in amusement. 

It feels kind of weird referring to Tony with epithets, and not even any of the good ones. But it had been explained to him that, in order to protect Peter’s identity, they had to make Peter out to be an orphan in Queens living with his uncle and aunt. There’s some faulty logic there, in having a Manhattan native appear to be from Queens, but apparently Peter did used to live in Queens with May and Ben, up until middle school. He just got here, anyway, so who’s he to judge?

“Oh my god, that is so cool! Do you get to wear—“ Ned cuts himself off, putting his hands on the table as he leans closer to whisper. “Do you get to wear the suit?” 

Harley thinks for a moment, wondering if he should reply seriously or not. He makes a noise, before drawling out, “That’s classified.”

Peter snorts as Ned’s face turns crestfallen. Harley turns his face to Peter’s other friend, a girl with curly bedhead covered with a beanie. “Hi, I’m Harley.”

“Wow, Peter was right,” he blinks at the introduction. Let it be known that Peter Stark doesn’t have normal friends, apparently.

“Right about what?” 

“Your accent is intense. Do you have a Stetson hiding in your bag too?” Out of the corner of Harley’s eye, he can see Peter mouthing ‘what the fuck’, making horizontal slicing motions near his neck.

Anyway. “I left my trusty ol’ hat with my horse out west. I’d bring her here but city folk don’t much appreciate the simpler things in life,” he responds, bringing his fingers near his forehead to tip an imaginary ten-gallon hat with matching charming grin.

“Oh,” she says, and Harley’s braces for the news that he’s attracted another girl to him. Nothing against girls, but he doesn’t particularly swing that way. He wasn’t a fan of turning them down, either. “Oh, I definitely like you,” is what she says, then she turns to Peter. “You can keep him.”

Wait, what?

“MJ, what the _fuck?!_ ” Peter whisper-yells, cheeks beet-red. Ah, so this other friend is MJ.

Harley looks back and forth between them before commenting. “Wow, so this is what you’re like without your mentor. Parker gone wild, wow,” he looks over to Ned, who’s munching on Peter’s leftover fries. “Is this normal?”

Ned shrugs. “Pretty much. Probably worse, actually. Oh, Peter, are we still going to Flash’s party?” he raises an eyebrow, which makes Harley think there’s some kind of silent conversation starting to happen there.

Peter frowns and knits his brows. Ned throws him a deadpan look.

Peter looks off to the side. Ned shakes his head and makes a noise, gesturing to somewhere across him.

Peter looks skyward, before massaging his forehead with a hand. Ned offers up a fry with a pout.

Peter stares. And stares some more. The fry might spontaneously combust from how much he’s staring at it. But finally, he takes it. “Yes!” Ned fistpumps.

At no point in this conversation does MJ look up from her phone. Harley can respect that.

“On one condition,” Peter says through the chewed fry, holding a finger up. “Harley has to come with.”

“Are you sure Harley isn’t too cool to hang out with some high schoolers like MJ?” Ned asks, taking another fry for Peter to eat.

“This might come as a shock to you, but I was not considered a cool kid in high school and never got invited to parties,” Harley shrugs a shoulder. “Might be fun.”

“There you have it,” Ned gestures to Harley, to which Peter sighs.

“Dammit, I was hoping you’d say you were and I’d be able to get out of this,” Peter groans as he pushes his head onto the table.

“Why? Aren’t high school parties supposed to be the shit? Might be cool to get some experiences I never got back home,” _because of the whole being the only queer in Rose Hill thing._ Harley thinks, scratching the back of his head with a frown.

Peter makes a noise. “Flash bullies Peter,” Ned translates. “This party invite is an attempt to show Peter up to make Flash feel better about himself or something.” Harley narrows his eyes.

“Ah,” he looks over at Peter’s mess of brown curls. “I’m definitely coming, then.”

“ _Noooooo…”_ Peter whines. Harley can’t resist but ruffle Peter’s hair fondly. 

“Making you meet my friends was the worst idea ever,” Peter says, head still down.

“No it isn’t,” Harley quips. “Probably not even in the top 10.”

Peter grumbles, “yeah, probably not. But definitely at least top 50.”

“That’s the spirit.”

  


* * *

  


After Peter and Harley leave, Tony throws himself into work. Not even fun R&D things-may-explode work, but paper-pushing bureaucratic work that involves phone calls with self-important suits and the urge to slam his head on the desk from how moronic people can be. Some of these people are high-up officials that run the country, what the _hell?_

Let it be said that Tony still finds his own fun, however, when he lets loose a pillbug that allows him easy access to government records. Okay, Stark Industries were the ones who made some of their systems in the first place, but that’s besides the point.

The point is, something is going awry with the DoDC, and Tony resolves to fix it. Especially before new-SHIELD starts transferring things to the super secret base up north.

He sighs, opens up a promisingly-titled file, and sets down to work.

  


* * *

  


New York is big.

Like, he’s watched all the news reports and met New York in the flesh via one Tony Stark, but the shock still hits Harley like a freight train. It’s big, it’s loud, it’s smoggy, it’s a lot of things he thought he didn’t want but he closes his eyes, grateful that he took that leap.

Peter’s still talking over plans and routes with Ned and MJ, while Harley reclines on his seat and lets the natives do the work. He did make sure to let Peter have his grocery list, but they were also open to other plans, as long as they were all heading home by 6 and not in a body bag or something.

He feels a poke on his side. “You need to sleep earlier.” Harley scrunches up his face.

“No, your d- Mr. Stark needs to stop waking me up at 9 when his circadian rhythm is based on the same dumpster raccoon I based mine off of,” he retorts, before opening his eyes. Ned and MJ are already standing, talking over Google Maps on MJ’s phone. Harley stands and Peter follows suit, throwing away their disposables in the nearest garbage can.

“Alright, gays,” Harley raises an eyebrow at MJ’s designation, but doesn’t question it. “Let’s get a move on,” she nods her head to the side, already walking off without them.

  


* * *

  


A lot of transport is made on foot, Harley learns. Traffic is usually up to the eyeballs, though foot traffic isn’t that great either.

“How did you even learn about a bunch of this stuff?” Peter asks him, eyes trained on his phone as he sidesteps an irate power walker charging on through. “Like, no offense meant at all, but I don’t think some of these ingredients could’ve been found where you lived.”

Harley shrugs, all long leisurely strides in comparison to Peter’s short fast pace. “Internet exists. Anything we didn’t have, I’d swap out for something else or leave out entirely,” he taps his temple. “The magic of cooking.”

Peter rolls his eyes, huffing a breath of air upwards into his coif.

“I’m looking forward to tasting some of these dishes as they were intended, though,” he drawls, looking over at Peter. “Still need someone to teach you how to cook?”

Peter resists the urge to fluster. Like, clench your insides and bite your fist resist. “Only if you’ve got the time.”

“Guys, c’mon!” Ned calls out a little ways away where he and MJ are walking a little slower. Peter and Harley up their pace to catch up.

  


* * *

  


They go through several specialty stores. Harley gets to spend money on stuff like actual vanilla beans, saffron _threads_ , cardamom pods, maras biber, among all the other spice rack staples. Ned comments that Harley looks like how he and Peter would at the LEGO store, except it’s in deli places and patisseries.

Harley always looks away when he hands over the credit card at the register.

  


* * *

  


“Do you think Tony will get mad at me if I spend the next week touring food places all over town?” Harley asks, twirling a fork into the pasta on his plate. They’ve settled for a late lunch-slash-early dinner at a hole-in-the-wall Italian place that Peter swears by.

“I think you’d need more than a week to get that done,” MJ replies, munching through her pizza. “Never trust food blogs that rave about the best New York anything. Check that they’re from New York first, then look over their opinions against other blogs,” she lists out, holding up three fingers with her free hand.

“Not the first time guiding someone’s starry-eyed ass through the Big Apple?” Harley asks, tilting his head.

“Oh, definitely not the first time for New York, but I think you're the first interested in the food,” she sniffs. “Some of my cousins stay over our place sometimes. Fun, but they get lost a lot. Or they end up at some seedy place because the blog they looked over hasn’t been updated since 2007.”

Harley nods. “Understandable.”

  


* * *

  


The last dregs of the day pass by in a haze. They spend a few hours playing Pokémon GO in Central Park, petting dogs, and taking _way_ too many selfies, courtesy of Ned and Peter.

“C’mon, it’s your first day out in New York! My mom was way worse when we moved here,” Ned says when Harley grunts out an almost-whine at the insistence of another photo. “Seriously, dude. Several albums of the stuff. I think she took a photo when I first sneezed in our house.”

“You looking to beat the record?” Harley replies, lazily throwing up two fingers over Peter’s head. “Should be easier now that camera limits are digital,” he continues. Ned looks over at Peter with a pleading look. Peter then looks at Harley and slings an arm over his shoulder.

“We’ll curate the best shots for your Instagram story,” Peter says in the most serious tone Harley’s ever heard from him. Harley only furrows his eyebrows.

“I don’t even have an Instagram.”

“We’ll make one for you! Problem solved.”

“That was not me consenting,” now it’s Harley’s turn to throw a look at MJ, who’s sitting on a bench reading the book she brought along. She turns at his gaze, then shrugging.

“ _Ugh_ , your friends are the _worst_ ,” Harley groans.

“Pretty sure they’re your friends now too,” Peter smiles, radiant and wide.

  


* * *

  


They stay with MJ and Ned in a cafe close by the Tower until Ned’s mom drives over and picks them up. He greets Ned’s mom with a polite “ma’am”, then waves them off with a lazy two-finger salute.

“I hate wearing hoodies when I have to go home,” Peter mutters, taking out the aforementioned hoodie and pulling it over himself, then putting his backpack back on.

“Sorry about that, sweetheart,” Harley pats him on the hand. “Would it make you feel better if I carried all my crap to the Tower myself?” They had several paper bags along with Peter’s backpack to contend with the entire way around.

“No, no! I’m fine, I can still help,” Peter says, a bag on each elbow crook. “I just hate wearing hoodies in September. September! Can you believe it?” Though, at this current moment, he's grateful for the hood hiding his pink face.

Harley sighs before nodding understandingly. “I getcha, sugar. Tower’s not a far-off walk from here, you’ll be rid of your hoodie soon,” He picks up the remaining bags, then he and Peter make their way back to the Tower.

  


* * *

  


“Breakfast, dessert, and now dinner? Are you sure dad didn’t hire you to be our personal chef or something?”

Harley snorts. “Funny thing is, your dad said just about the same thing.” He’s stored away all the condiments and spices he wasn’t planning on using for dinner tonight, closing the cupboard with a soft ‘click’.

“Great minds,” Peter quips, tapping his temple with a cheeky smile. “What do you need help with now, O Gastronomy Master?”

Harley hums, laying out all the remaining ingredients on the kitchen island. Then, he takes out a pen and paper from his pockets and writes out a list of ingredients. “Could you measure out these ingredients into this?” he tapped a finger against the glass measuring cup. “You might need these, too,” He put a keyring of measuring spoons beside it.

“Can do, will do,” Peter nods, as Harley also passes him a bowl with a bunch of enoki mushrooms in it.

“And, can you tear these? Not one by one from the stalk, though. Just into clumps so we don’t have a single chunk of mushrooms in the soup,” Harley demonstrates by tearing off a few strands of enoki and dumping them into the bowl.

“Pffft, what makes you think I’d do that?” Peter says, and Harley stares at him, entirely unconvinced.

“You’re the same person who has an extensive collection of intricate thousand-piece LEGO models in your room,” he says, finally. “You ain’t fooling me, Stark.”

Peter scoffs, looking down to focus on his tasks. “Offended,” he mutters, tone belying the lack of it.

“You’ll live,” Harley shrugs, rinsing some napa cabbage in a strainer, then breaking each leaf one by one off the core.

“You say that…” Peter says, gesturing to the poor cabbage with a tablespoon.

Harley shoots him an incredulous look. “A forty-leafed cabbage is not the same as a hundred-stalked mushroom. Don’t even at me with that,” he shakes his head. “But if you wanna stay here for hours on end separating individual mushroom strands, be my guest, sweetheart.”

Okay, that was just unfair. Did Harley really not know he shouldn’t just drop terms of endearment like that? With an accent _like that_? Where Peter can _hear_? It’s practically criminal, and he has sensitive baby ears! Honestly, the disrespect.

Peter says none of this out loud. Rather, he stews in silence as his cheeks turn red. Harley says nothing.

Instead, Harley stacks several cabbage leaves high and crunches down on them with a sharp knife, separating the white stalk part from the green leafy parts. Then he juliennes the stalk into matchstick-sized pieces with all the precision of a chef, or an engineer.

“Wow, if I tried to do that I might’ve cut my fingers off several times over,” Peter comments with awe, moving on to tearing the mushrooms into the bowl but not taking his eyes off of Harley… Harley’s _knifework_.

“Takes practice,” Harley says, sliding the chopped cabbage back into the strainer before stacking another bunch of leaves. “You wanna try?” he looks to Peter then, blue-grey eyes clear with a hint of a smile on his face.

Anyway, this is probably how Peter Parker Stark dies, because suddenly he finds himself teetering on the edge of spontaneous combustion. 

He’s in front of the chopping board, holding a knife with Harley’s hand — huge, warm hands, holy _shit_ — guiding him through not-chopping-his-fingers-off. Harley’s presence isn’t quite pressed up against him (“gotta save room for Jesus,” he drawls, heavy on the sarcasm), but it’s close enough that Peter can feel the heat radiating into his back.

“Alright, curl your fingers just like this,” Harley says as he encases Peter’s other hand, curling it in then removing the grasp. “Chop slowly but surely. The knife is sharp enough that it won’t get caught on anything, but doing anything too fast without being used to it won’t turn out well,” Peter shivers at the warm breath by his ear, but his insides clench at what Harley says. 

Harley doesn’t want fast. Yeah, okay. Understandable. Peter can do that. He can be as cool as a cucumber.

“Uh, Peter?”

“Y-Yeah?” Peter swallows down the nerves.

“You need to actually move the knife to start chopping.”

“Right, right. Totally knew that,” he says as the knife comes down, producing a stack of matchstick-shaped cabbage stalks. A bit on the thicker side compared to Harley's, but he’s still learning.

“You can start to move your fingers back if it’s getting too close to the knife. You curl your hand so you don’t accidentally cut a finger off,” Harley says, making the curled hand on the counter edge back not unlike a hermit crab’s movement. “Like this.”

“Okay,” Peter nods, mirroring the gesture as practice, and he dies just a little bit inside when Harley huffs an amused breath by his neck. “Got it. I can take it from here.”

_Oh,_ Peter thinks, _but parting is such sweet sorrow,_ as Harley pulls away. _Good job, Juliet._ “Don’t forget to put them back in the strainer so you don’t run out of space on the board.”

“Mhmm,” Peter hums. “Got it,” so Harley moves on to the fillets.

Harley hasn’t actually gone fish shopping before, what with part of their diets back home being strictly beans as protein and bread as carbs, so he hopes whatever Peter’s choice was good. He gingerly unwraps the brown paper package to unearth the package inside.

_I have literally no meter stick for this_ , as Harley pats the fish dry then divides the fillet into 8 sizeable chunks. “Ah, shit. Fri, do you guys have some kind of big pot for this?”

“Indeed we do,” FRIDAY replies, lighting up a cabinet door. “Do be careful, it’s quite heavy.”

At the word ‘heavy’, Peter lights up. “I can get it!”

“What the— how’d you get those done so fast?” and then “I’ll do fine, princess, I can handle this just as well.”

“No, we’re good!” Peter beats him to the cabinet anyway, since Harley was still rinsing his hands. “Dad has me lift things around the workshop all the time,” and if he's currently hurrying to carry the stockpot to show off, well, no one has to know.

“O… kay…?” Because, really, what else is there to say? Peter hefts the dutch oven off the shelf with barely a readying breath, carrying it two handed with all the effort that one would an empty plastic tray.

“Where do you want me to put this?” Peter asks, and Harley can only stare at how Peter’s arms aren’t straining from the thing. 

“Over there on the burner, please,” he points with a dripping finger, shaking off the excess water on his hands then moving to the stove to inspect its state of cleanliness. “We’re gonna need to wipe this thing down, it looks like.”

“Hm? Why not wash it in the sink?” Peter tilts his head.

“‘Cause it’s pretty heavy and I don’t want to break your sink,” Harley pulls back, tracing a line down the enameled pot with a finger. It came away gray from dust. “Yup, definitely need to clean it.” 

Peter makes a noise. “Don’t worry about it, dad breaks stuff all around the tower all the time,” _well, not as much anymore, but it still counts_. “I don’t think he’ll mind if you… break… our sink?” he tilts his head, frowning. “That doesn’t sound right.”

Harley rolls his eyes, wiping the dust off his finger. “Exactly. That’s what I was talking about.”

“I mean!” Peter holds out his hands like a shrug. “It’s true?”

“Probably,” Harley holds up a finger. “But rule one.”

“I don’t remember dad setting rules for you in the house,” Peter notes with a raised brow.

Harley sighs, but keeps the finger up. “Never mind that,” he waves the thought off with his free hand. “Rule one: no property damage.”

“No property damage,” Peter echoes, nodding. “Got it. Want me to get paper towels instead?”

“Now you’re putting that Stark brain to work,” Harley drawls, much to Peter’s offended squeak. “Paper towels would be great.”

“Okay, cool, I can do that.”

While Peter is on the hunt for paper towels, Harley returns to the fish, seasoning them with salt then setting them aside to hack off a piece of ginger. He finishes slicing the ginger into thin discs when Peter returns triumphant, a roll of paper towels in hand.

“Thank you, darlin’, I appreciate it,” Harley says, effusing it with as much gratitude as he can. Stark Tower is massive, and he was better off pawning that task off to someone who’s lived there longer than he has. Also because Peter gets a smidgen ridiculous when he drops a petname or two.

“No problem!” Peter returns, smile wide.

“We should be almost ready to cook,” Harley says, moving to the stove to wipe off the dutch oven with soaked towels. “Oh! Do you know how to cook rice?” At Peter’s blank look then sheepish smile, Harley sighs. “Today’s your lucky day, then.”

He hands him a strainer and the small bag of rice from the counter. “Measure out a cup of rice then wash it under cold water until the water isn’t really cloud when you let it pool in your hands,” Harley thinks for a moment, before adding. “And then get a microwaveable container that can hold about… 2 or 3 quarts. That can actually fit in the microwave, mind.”

“Wash rice, then find a container. Got it,” Peter recites, then gets to work. 

Harley disposes of the used paper towels then moves the chopping board, strainer, bowl, and measuring cup to the counter space beside the stove. He pours in the contents of the measuring cup, poking at the kombu until it falls in as well. Then he turns on the heat to medium high, blue flames licking up the bottom of the dutch oven.

“All done!” Peter says, brandishing a strainer full of wet rice and a ceramic high-walled dish. Harley nods, keeping an eye on the broth as it heats up. “Wow, it’s already smelling so good, kinda like a Japanese restaurant.”

“Deceptively simple recipe,” Harley says with a wry smile. “Dump the rice in the casserole then put two cups of water in it. Then put it in the microwave, uncovered on high for 10 minutes,” he hands Peter the measuring cup. “Just wash it out, if you please.”

“Will do!” Peter salutes, then starts muttering the instructions to himself as he washes out the measuring cup. Harley allows himself a small smile, _he sure is trying. Cute._

The broth is starting to take on a bit of boil, so Harley turns down the heat to low. He lays down the green cabbage leaves to line the bottom, then scatters the matchsticks, mushrooms, and ginger over top. And, finally, arranges the fish on top of all that so all the fillets are evenly spaced apart. Then he covers it all with the lid, and sets a timer for 10 minutes.

The microwave is also buzzing with its own contents, and Peter looks on. “That’s it?” he asks, as Harley gathers up the used dishes and utensils.

“Basically, yeah,” Harley nods, putting all the dishes in the sink. “As I said, deceptively simple. That’s why I bullied Tony into letting me restock the kitchens, ‘cause all the stuff you measured up is doing all the hard work for us.”

“Huh,” Peter nods, a little in awe. The ingredients he measured out early smelled a little funky and intense when all by their lonesome, but they're smelling divine now that they’re steaming up the entire kitchen. “That’s so cool!”

“Glad you think it is,” Harley turns around and leans his hip on the counter. “My sister wasn’t really interested in the cooking side of things, she just preferred eating what I made,” he huffs at the memory of Abbie, shaking his head with a slight smile.

“Well, with how good they all turn out, I can’t say I blame her,” Peter moves back to the kitchen island, elbows on the counter with his palms pillowing his chin. “How’s your sister taking you moving to the big city?” he asks, tilting his head.

“We call sometimes, every other day if we can help it,” Harley recalls their last phone call, all about the slumber party she got invited to and what she got for her English test. “I think she wanted me to move out more than I did myself,” he rubs his chin in thought. “Probably something about getting my room and never waking up to the sounds of welding or hammering metal in the middle of the night anymore, either.”

“Bet she still misses you, though,” Peter says.

Harley shrugs. “Kinda? I swear, she’s growing up faster than I did, all independent and fierce. The calls help, at least,” he winces at the realization, but pushes it down. “She’ll be fine. Mama’s got better work hours now, and I’ve been sending what I earn their way. Not like I really need much here.”

“Wait,” Peter holds up a hand. “You get _paid_ for your Stark Internship?” He gains the exaggerated affectation of an offended old aunt. 

Harley resists the urge to roll his eyes. Really, he does. It’s not his fault they have a mind of their own sometimes. “Need I remind you whose surname is on the tower we’re standing in right now?”

Peter narrows his eyes. “Point.”

“Got you there,” Harley huffs amusedly, then turning around and rinsing the used dishes until the microwave goes off. “Check the rice if the water’s mostly evaporated. If it isn’t, run it by 1 minute intervals until it is. If it is, cover it with a lid then microwave it for another 4 minutes,” he doesn’t even need to look this time. As long as Peter keeps doing that mutter-instructions-to-myself-to-remember thing, it should turn out fine.

And if it doesn’t, well, it’s microwaved rice. Ain’t the hardest thing in the world to redo in a world with high-tech dishwashers and home AIs. At least the ones that aren’t selling consumer data to advertisers. _Tony wouldn’t do that. Probably._

The microwave runs for 1 minute bursts, and then another 4 when his phone goes off. He turns off the heat and removes the lid, steam coming out as a plume of white smoke, bringing out the smell of broth with its salty, umami, soy and ginger notes. With a fork, Harley fishes out the five discs of ginger he put in it, turning over cabbage and fish pieces until he finds all five and disposes of them.

“You don’t like ginger?” Peter asks, watching him from the microwave.

Harley shrugs. “It’s fine, but I remember making this the first time with the matchstick cut. I don’t know if you’ve ever eaten ginger whole, but it isn’t a fun time,” he frowns, remembering the intense bitter-earthy flavor ginger blossoms out when crunched into.

“I’ll take your word for it,” Peter nods, and Harley takes a dish coaster to the kitchen island before hefting the dutch oven on top of it.

_What the hell? How did he just stand to carry this like it was nothing?_ Harley thinks. It isn’t hard to lift out only because it gets immediately transferred somewhere else, but Peter was holding it for longer than that with a smile on his face. “Do you have some kind of gym here?”

“Uh, we have the training ranges, back when the. Avengers used to live here,” Peter says, tone clipped and stilted. Harley’s seen the news, seen the ruckus the Avengers had before in New York. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, I’m thinking, someone shorter and slimmer than me,” Harley gestures to Peter, who suddenly looks like he really doesn’t want to be there. “Can manage to hold a 20 pound enameled cast-iron dutch oven without so much as a strained muscle.”

“…You think I’m slim?” Peter blinks, and Harley rolls his eyes.

“Yes, honeybunch, I think you’re slim,” he sighs, rummaging for bowls and silverware rather than push the topic further. “Can you check if the rice is done yet?”

“Gotcha,” and then Peter opens the microwave, opens the lid for a cursory once-over, and just takes out the container without mittens. _Alright. That’s normal._

“Okay, this small bowl is for rice, this big bowl is for the fish,” Harley declares, once Peter’s put the rice on the kitchen island as well. “I’ll go get a tray so you can bring yours and Tony’s helpings to wherever Tony i— Hey Fri, where’s Tony?”

“Boss is currently in his office in the penthouse floor,” FRIDAY pipes up.

“Okay, so you can bring it up to him for dinner,” he puts spoons and forks on each large bowl, then spooning over his own helpings in his own bowls. “Help yourself, just make sure to leave some for Tony.”

“I _know_ ,” Peter whines, swapping out his own small bowl for a big one, to Harley's amusement.

“Just reminding you, ‘cause I’m not up for making another batch tonight regardless of how fast it took to prep,” Harley flashes a wry smile, plating up Tony’s portions once Peter’s taken his. And, would you look at that, no leftovers. Which is kind of a shame, because Harley loves this dish enough to have it as leftovers. Then he stares at Peter’s mountain of rice and fish and decides to double the recipe next time he makes it.

“Okay, that’s fair,” Peter says, putting Tony’s bowls and utensils on the tray, then grabbing two bottles of water and two cans of soda from the fridge. “Anything else before I leave?”

“Oh!” Harley plucks a bottle from the spice cabinet, pops the lid and puts two (exactly two) drops of it into his broth bowl. “Sesame oil. Only put one or two drops in it, or the entire dish will smell like it. Seriously, this stuff’s potent,” he caps it and puts it on the tray. “Or just don’t use it if you think you’ll accidentally dump the entire thing in,” he says that with a smirk, and Peter rolls his eyes.

“Will do,” Peter starts rounding the corner, leaving Harley with his own dinner. “And Harls?” he stops.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks,” Peter sends him a soft, sincere smile before heading into the elevator.

"No problem," Harley chokes out, long after Peter's left.

  


* * *

  


The glass door slides open when Peter arrives, letting him walk in without jostling the tray in his hands.

“I got dinner!” Peter declares, the delicious smell wafting and confirming the arrival.

“That doesn’t smell like our regular dinner order,” Tony comments, looking up from file #31697-what-the-fucking-ever and pulling down his reading glasses. “Harley Keener special?”

Peter grins, “yup! I helped.”

Tony tilts his head, eyebrows shooting in mock-surprise. “And we still have a kitchen? Wow, remind me to give Harley a raise.”

Peter makes a face. “I wasn’t _that_ bad,” at Tony’s stare, he kicks the floor a bit and mutters. “Not as bad as May is, at least.”

“Well, how about we test out that theory rather than you stand there making me hungrier with every minute we’re not eating?” Tony retorts, closing up his tablet and holoscreen and setting them off to the side. Peter sets down the tray and lets his dad take his bowls and utensils, then moving his own stuff to the table and placing the empty tray on the spare seat.

No one actually ever comes to Tony’s personal office in the penthouse, but this is where many of their father-son dinners and up happening. The workshop is too loud and motor oil-smelling to bring down hot meals, and neither of them have really had reason to be in the kitchen at the same time until now.

“Oh, wow, this is really good,” Tony comments, slurping broth as a mushroom snaps up into his mouth. “Fri, definitely remind me to give Harley a raise for this.”

“Will do, boss.”

“You know he did use up your card buying so many spices and cooking things,” Peter mentions, though he knows his dad can track the card’s purchases from virtually anywhere in the Tower.

“Yeah,” Tony half-shrugs, taking a bite of fish and rice and moaning appreciatively. “God, this is so good,” he mutters, before wiping his mouth. “Yes, Harley did use enough money to buy something at Tiffany’s, but I have a hunch on where his own money’s been going,” he nods to himself. “Figured the kid could use the extra cash for himself.”

“Or he’d just send all that to his family,” Peter counters.

“Or that,” Tony nods. “Except the stipulation of this extra money is that it’ll be his. For buying frivolous things, getting around, hell, saving it up for college,” he shrugs. “He can choose to disobey that stipulation, but it’d be good to give him the option.”

“That’s good,” Peter says, before asking quietly. “What did happen when you were in Tennessee? I didn’t really want to pry, but I was— we were… really worried.”

Tony hums, putting down his spoon. “I— JARVIS plotted out a course for Tennessee when some of my research on the Mandarin lead there. Regrouped, met up with a mouthy 12-year-old with a chip on his shoulder a mile wide, and tried to find out exactly what the reason is behind Mandarin’s activity in the middle of nowhere.”

Peter looks down at his bowl. “And you let Harley help you out then, and he was 12.”

Tony looks at Peter, grimacing. “Harley was my mechanic, helping me out with research with intel on the sidelines,” he sighs out, knowing where this conversation was going. “I tried to keep him out of danger the best I could, but sometimes he just threw himself into the fray.”

“And that’s without a super-suit to keep him out of harm’s way.”

_He had a pneumatic potato gun and a single-use repulsor_ , Tony thinks, but knows better to say it out loud. “Yep, and it keeps me up at night, sometimes. Wondering what would’ve happened if neither of us were fast enough, or the suit didn’t have enough power, or you somehow got caught up in the fray. People exploded into fiery infernos, where we were,” he closes his eyes, willing the images to leave his mind’s eye. “You’re about the same age, too, it was hard not to think about you then.”

Peter nods to himself, taking a sharp breath. “A compromise, then.”

Tony takes a few calming breaths. _8, 7, 6, 5…_ Then opens his eyes, hands interlaced. _Here we go._ “Let’s hear it.”

“I continue to do covert investigation as Spider-Man,” Tony opens his mouth, but Peter interrupts him. “Sorry dad, but red and gold don’t exactly scream stealth. And you have way more stuff to do in the whole 24-hour block than I do after school,” Tony closes his mouth again.

“Anyway, I do investigation. If at any point I have to face against a weapon, I’ll call you. Or send a distress signal, something. I’ll have Karen record footage and transfer it over to help you out, too,” Peter continues. “I know you have a hand in the department that’s supposed to be wrangling all this stuff, so maybe it’ll help with getting all this sorted out.”

Tony nods, thinking and turning the idea over in his head. “Curfew and limitations still apply. If you don’t find anything 15 minutes before curfew, you’ll have to head home,” Peter opens his mouth, but Tony holds up a finger. “If you need backup and it’s in the window of 15 minutes, call me. If I’m out, call Uncle Rhodey or Viz. You still need your sleep.”

“And Peter — and I can’t stress this enough —, if you find even a hint of these weapons being used out in the open, let me know. First priority,” Tony pleads. “Before you think about getting in there guns blazing, let me know. Like you said, you can text or send a distress signal through Karen.”

Peter nods, muttering the stipulations under his breath. “Okay,” he then says, and Tony lets out a sigh of relief. “Patrols are the same, if I don’t find anything before 15 minutes to curfew, I let it go. If something happens in those 15 minutes, I call you, Uncle Rhodey, or Vision. And if I have to fight against a weapon, I call you,” he recites, imprinting it in his memory.

“First priority,” Tony reminds him.

“First priority,” Peter echoes, nodding. “Okay.”

“I really am grateful for your help, Pete,” Tony says, but there’s a pained expression on his face. “I just wish it was a second brain for R&D, or an extra set of hands keeping DUM-E’s messes at bay.”

Peter can only shrug, expression a little hapless, lost. “It is what it is. At least we’re going through it, together,” he slides his hand across Tony’s desk, palm up.

“Together,” Tony repeats, covering Peter’s hand with his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Soy and Ginger Steamed Fish **   
>  _Courtesy of[Bon Appétit](https://www.bonappetit.com/recipe/soy-and-ginger-steamed-fish)_
> 
> **INGREDIENTS:**
> 
>   * 2 6–8-oz. skinless black bass fillets
>   * Kosher salt
>   * 1 4x3" piece dried kombu (optional)
>   * 2 Tbsp. sake
>   * 2 Tbsp. soy sauce*
>   * 1 Tbsp. mirin (sweet Japanese rice wine)
>   * ¼ large or ½ medium head of Napa cabbage, stems thinly sliced crosswise, leaves torn if large (about 5 cups)
>   * 4 oz. mixed mushrooms (such as shiitake, oyster, beech, and/or maitake), torn into pieces
>   * 1 2" piece ginger, peeled, cut into thin matchsticks**
>   * 1 Tbsp. toasted sesame oil
>   * 2 scallions, thinly sliced
>   * Cooked rice (for serving)
> 

> 
> **DIRECTIONS:**
> 
>   1. Slice fish into six pieces; season all over with salt.
>   2. Combine kombu (if using), sake, soy sauce, mirin, and ¾ cup water*** in a medium donabe or Dutch oven with lid.
>   3. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat to low. Layer cabbage stems, then leaves in pot.
>   4. Scatter mushrooms and ginger over, then place fish over mushrooms. Cover pot and steam until fish is opaque and just cooked through, 8–10 minutes.
>   5. Drizzle with sesame oil and top with scallions. Serve in shallow bowls with broth spooned over and rice alongside.
> 

> 
> * Rather than 2 Tbsp soy sauce, I use a combination of 1 1/4 Tbsp. soy sauce and 3/4 Tbsp. fish sauce.  
> ** If you aren’t a fan of biting into ginger pieces, I suggest slicing them into discs then fishing them out before serving.  
> *** Rather than plain water, I use dashi.  
> 
> 
> * * *
> 
>   
>  ** How to Cook Rice in the Microwave **   
>  _Courtesy of[Epicurious](https://www.epicurious.com/expert-advice/how-to-cook-rice-in-the-microwave-step-by-step-article)_
> 
> **DIRECTIONS:**
> 
>   1. Put rice and water in a microwave-safe dish.
>   2. Place your rice in the microwave.
>   3. Cover the rice, and microwave it again.
>   4. Remove the rice and let it stand.
> 

> 
> (And before you say “dishonour on you! dishonour on your cow!”, I’m very Asian and the rice cooker is beloved in my house. However, a part-Italian family would not have one, nor would a non-Asian family from the South. Also I prefer this method because I hate the rice crusts.)


	4. twenty-three to four to one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony finally happens upon Harley cooking one night. Let it be known that freaking out over your crush in front of said crush’s dad is kind of the worst thing ever. Then they go to a house party, which is also a near thing for worst thing ever. Peter does some investigating and they bring a souvenir home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Barenaked Ladies' "[Odds Are](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Sw9Fh6uk4Q)".
> 
> Sorry for the delay in posting. Life got in the way and I'm still trying to shake it off. Thankfully, fanfiction is here to keep my mind away from it all. Big thank you to the Spiderlad and Stuckony Discords for cheering me on in a bit of a trying time, as well as Discord user boyoshock for helping me write out a bit of dialogue.
> 
> Chapter warning for comic book violence and weaponry. Take care. ♡

It was only a matter of time, really, when Tony stumbled into the kitchen while Harley was cooking.

The circumstances that lead to it were: an irate workshop coffeemaker, a nosy tower AI, and a “what the hell, why not?”. Tony turned on the coffee machine as Harley measured out ingredients on the kitchen island.

“I saw what you did, by the way,” is Harley’s way of breaking the silence, as Tony taps his foot impatiently at the communal coffeemaker.

“Me?” Tony asks. “I did nothing.” He sees Harley side-eye him from the periphery, and then scoffing.

“Right. I can see where Peter gets _that_ from,” Harley comments wryly, putting away the bag of flour and box of butter into their respective places. Then he reaches over and preheats one of the ovens.

“Only because I’m not trying,” Tony shoots back, then eyeing the saucepan Harley’s heating up. “And because you will end up feeding me at some point.”

Harley tilts his head, moving back to the saucepan, before nodding. “Little victories, then,” he moves the pan to the burner, turning on the heat to medium. “Anyway,” he says as he dumps in the butter. “You really didn’t need to do what you did. I already live in the Tower, eat your food, and tinker with your toys. It’s not like I’m gonna need much more to survive.”

Tony makes a noise at Harley’s phrasing, swiping the mug from the coffeemaker once it finishes dispensing sweet ichor. “I’m sure you’ll find some use for it,” he says, stirring in sugar to his mug. “Watch a musical from overpriced seats, smoke weed, pick up a new instrument,” he blows on the coffee to cool it down. “Or, I don’t know, put it in a college fund, buy some shares. Start a collection of exceedingly rare stamps from the years 1942 to 1946.”

Harley looks at Tony with a raised brow. “That is… really specific. Are you okay?” As he dumps in the flour, stirring the mix vigorously with a spoon.

Tony snorts, taking little sips of his coffee. “I’m always okay, the uncertainty is part of the Stark brand.”

“Stark eccentricity, more like,” Harley mutters.

“Get with the program, kid, that’s part of the deluxe package.”

Harley nods, “Flair checks out.” Tony tilts his head, then decides he doesn’t want to know. “It’s nice talking to you when you aren’t reduced to primal grunts or excitable bursts of manic science rambles,” he turns off the burner and moves the saucepan to the side, still stirring. “You really need to get out of your workshop more.”

“Let’s talk, then,” Tony sets his mug down. “How’s New York been treating you? It’s been, what, a month since you got here.”

Harley scrunches his brow as he dumps the mixture in the bowl of a stand mixer. “Does it really count as New York if I’ve only gone outside, like, 3 times since I got here?” He cracks an egg into the bowl and lets it run on low.

“Your zip code says so, so yes, it would still count.”

Harley snorts. “Yeah, because technicalities are really what give that bonafide New York experience.”

Tony winks as he points at him. “Now you’re getting it,” he grins. “Got any plans coming up?”

Harley hums, tilting his head as he cracks another egg into the mix. “I don’t think so? Other than goofing off in the workshop and cooking, it’s all pretty normal day-to-day things.”

“Really now?” Tony raises an eyebrow, hand curling over the handle of his mug. “I heard from a Petey-bird that Ned’s dragging him to a party tonight.”

At the word, Harley perks up. “Party?” He turns off the mixer and scrapes off the dough stuck on the paddle attachment. “Party, party…” he mutters to himself. “Oh shit, that’s tonight, huh?” He ducks his head, groaning. “Why did I even agree to that?”

Tony shrugs. “I dunno, I think going outside and hanging out with kids your own age would be good. You’re turning into a hermit and you’re only 17.”

“Hush, you,” Harley brandishes a spatula against him. “Other than publicity events and superheroing, do _you_ ever actually go outside?”

“Nope!” Tony answers, smug. “The main difference is that I’m a grown man and not hanging out with people my age won’t cause me to have a complex when I get older.”

“Surprisingly enough, I didn’t ask!” Harley huffs, spooning the dough into a zipper storage bag.

“Okay,” Tony says, firm. “Let me lay it out for you in bold letters, then: are you sure you’re not going to the party because Peter’s going?”

“No, I’m going to the party because Peter…” Harley scrunches up his face tight, almost tight as the twist on the piping bag he’s holding. Why did he say yes to going again?

_Peter makes a noise. “Flash bullies Peter,” Ned translates. “This party invite is an attempt to show Peter up to make Flash feel better about himself or something.” Harley narrows his eyes._

_“Ah,” he looks over at Peter’s mess of brown curls. “I’m definitely coming, then.”_

Oh right, because he’d rather not have Peter face anything bad without him by his side. Harley’s eyes widen a fraction as the cogs click into place. Then, “oh.”

He purses his lips and resolutely concentrates on piping profiteroles on the prepared baking sheet. _If I don’t say anything out loud, Tony won’t notice that I’ve had an Archimedean revelation_. _About his son. Oh god._ He grimaces as he counts all the neat little rows he’s piped. _One sheet fits about 35 cream puffs. This batch makes 50 in total._

“You’re surprisingly calm for someone who’s having a crisis,” Tony quips, taking a larger gulp of his coffee.

Harley huffs, putting down the emptied plastic bag. “That’s because it’s all in here,” he gestures to his temple. “And, I don’t know if you do, but you know how weird it is to have a crisis over the son of the guy standing in front of you?” he says this as he puts the baking sheets into the oven. 

“Isn’t this the part where you discreetly give me the shovel talk while shining your shotgun? Oh god, I don’t wanna get the shovel talk from Iron Man.” He nearly forgets to set a timer for the oven in all the commotion in his head, it was a close thing.

Tony raises a hand, trying not to laugh. “Okay — and as weird as this is, bear with me — I’ve had way worse crises thrown at me than ‘I have a crush on a guy I hang out with a lot’.”

“Yeah!” Harley raises his voice, panic at the edges. “But it’s _my_ crisis! Over _your_ son! This was not on my to-do list at any point today!”

Tony shakes his head and rolls his shoulders back, draining the mug of its final dredges before putting it back in the coffeemaker. “World’s doing it to keep you on your toes. Going with the flow tends to be a good course of action for these kinds of things.”

Harley, ever the trooper, goes on to take a bowl from the fridge. “Ugh. I’m getting fatherly advice from my crush’s dad. What the hell is my life?”

“For what it’s worth,” Tony starts, watching as Harley wipes down the stand mixer bowl and paddle before dumping the custard-looking mix into it. “I can give the shovel talk later when you don’t look like you’re about to pass out. Can’t French pastries sense fear?”

Harley doesn’t even dignify that with a verbal answer. Rather, he glares.

Tony rolls his eyes. _Teenagers_. “World isn’t gonna end if you realize you have a crush on someone,” he reminds him. “Ooh, crush. That’s a word I haven’t used in a while.”

“Glad you find my crisis entertaining,” Harley grumbles, turning on the stand mixer.

Tony smiles, fond. “This sure is what you expected when you helped a man who crash landed near your place forever ago huh, kid?”

Harley shrugs. “I thought there’d be more explosions and break-ins, but so far it’s a fat goose egg on both of those,” he leans on the counter, arms crossed on his chest. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or disappointed that my life is vaguely turning out to be a Disney sitcom.”

“Disney sitcom is fine,” Tony snorts at the idea of his own life being anything like that. “Disney sitcom is better than kidnapped. The last person that went missing on us became a freezer pop after 70 years of ice.”

“Yikes,” Harley says. “I was mostly kidding, but I didn’t know it was that bad.” _Superheroes have superproblems, I guess._ He turns off the stand mixer and spoons the custard into another zipper storage bag, this one fitted with a long nozzle piping tip.

“Count your blessings, kid. Or sheep. Count your sheep, too. Don’t you have a party to get to later?” Tony takes his refilled mug and drinks it straight up this time. Talking delays caffeine, and he’s not sure if the social intake is worth being bereft of it in the mornings. “Just put these,” he gestures to the used utensils. “In the sink and I’ll get the cleaning staff to get it all cleared away later.”

Harley blinks. “But I always clean up after I cook.”

“Today can be an exception,” Tony offers. “If you don’t want it to be the norm. Billionaire, remember?”

They stare each other down until Harley’s timer goes off. Then he’s putting on mittens and taking out two trays to cool on the counter. He inspects them, cracking one open as Tony looks at him expectantly. For the visual learners, the profiteroles are puffed and hollow on the inside, steaming when he opened one of them.

“…Fine,” Harley finally mutters. “But I need to actually finish these cream puffs before I start putting everything away.”

“Wow, why can’t you be this neat and orderly when you’re working in the lab?” Tony crosses his arms. “I get that my side is probably a pig sty, but the bots don’t clean up after you because they don’t know if you’re gonna be using them.”

“Really?” Harley asks, holding up a profiterole to inject with custard. “That’s awful sweet of them,” he smiles, then puts down the puff when he feels it distend against his fingers. Then he picks up another one. “For the record, I clean up after myself in the kitchen because it’s only polite,” he points to Tony as he opens his mouth. “Don’t you start,” so Tony closes his mouth again.

“Anyway, mold and bacteria,” Harley shudders. “Gross and unsanitary.”

Tony shoots him an incredulous look. “You mean tetanus isn’t gross and unsanitary?”

“You have bots to clean up after you and your lab,” Harley says, returning Tony’s look with his own deadpan one. “If there ever was an off-chance some virus — hell, viruses — lurking around there, it would’ve killed you a long while back ago.”

“Many things could’ve killed me a long while back ago,” Tony reminds him. “You were there for one of them.”

“Not the point I was making,” Harley rolls his eyes. “I just wanna clean up after myself. Is that so bad?”

“Well, you do that,” Tony says as he puts a filled cream puff in his mouth. “Oh, that’s good,” Harley beams at the compliment. “Anyway, after this, go get some sleep. I don’t know how timezone adjustments work, but consistently being awake at 3AM to use sharp or otherwise dangerous equipment will get you hurt at some point. And I don’t have enough money in the world to fix recklessness or a garbage circadian rhythm.”

Harley stares at him. “Bullshit,” he says this as he takes out two containers for the cream puffs, not taking his eyes off Tony the entire time. “One, you do all those things in the workshop and have actually gotten injured before,” he holds up a finger. “Two, I haven’t,” another finger. “And three, didn’t you _just_ say you’re a billionaire?”

Tony waves him off with one hand, snatching more profiteroles with the other. “Who are you, my lawyer? Go on, get going.”

Harley rolls his eyes, handing him a smaller plastic container filled with puffs. “It’s dangerous to go alone, take this.”

Tony grins, “Knew I kept you around for a reason.”

  


* * *

  


“I hate this.”

Harley says, hands tucked in his jacket pockets. They’re dropped off in front of the Toomes’ suburban house. The place reeks of teenage hormones and too many strangers and literally all he wants is to go home and bury himself in schematics. (He’s not sure when he’s started referring to the Tower as home.)

The house is booming with music and Ned is vibrating under his Stetson. Harley keeps his face blissfully blank and disaffected as they walk into the entry hall. As expected, there’s barely a spot in the house without people in it, and he can already feel a twinge of pins and needles at this fingertips.

“Oh my gosh, hey guys!” a girl walks up to them, requisite solo cup in hand. Harley’s gaze immediately flickers to Peter, whose eyes widen and an upward quirk at his lips. Harley tries not to let his own emotions show. “Cool hat, Ned!”

“Hey Liz,” Ned greets this Liz person easily.

“Hi Liz!” Peter says, a bit more enthusiastically, and Harley doesn’t stop his eyebrow from raising a fraction then.

“Who’s your friend?” she asks, gesturing towards Harley.

“Harley,” he introduces himself, tipping his head in her direction. “I’m,” if anyone notices the blip in the sentence, he hopes they blame it on nerves. “One of Peter’s childhood friends, swung by in town and thought it would be fun to catch up,” he lays on his accent thick. “Hope you don’t mind the extra +1, darlin’.”

Liz nods, mouth in an ‘oh’. “Well, that’s not a problem! There’s pizza and drinks, just help yourselves,” she smiles, gesturing to the kitchen area to the right of them.

“Yeah,” Peter nods. “It’s a great party,” he says with a touch of a dreamy tone.

“Thanks,” Liz smiles, the corners of her eyes creasing. Harley kind of wants to gag.

A crash and the sound of glass breaking brings Liz’s attention back to the party. “Oh no, I—“ she turns to look at the direction of the sound. “My parents are will kill me if anything’s broken, I’m gonna—“

“Yeah!” Peter says. “No, no problem. Gotta keep the party going,” he returns her smile with his own, creasing around the wings of his nose.

“See you around,” she says, walking off.

“Bye,” Ned waves, then he turns to Peter. “At least you didn’t say anything stupid that time.”

“Hard to say anything stupid when he barely said anything at all,” Harley comments, glancing over and spotting a familiar face. “‘Sup, MJ.”

She’s buttering up a piece of toast when she faces them. “I can’t believe you’re actually at this lame party, Keener,” she comments.

He furrows his brows at her. “Aren’t you here too?”

“Am I?” she bites into her toast and walks away. Harley shoots a questioning look at Ned and Peter, who don’t notice.

“PENIS PARKER!” a voice on the loudspeaker makes them turn to the turntables.

“So, where’s your pal Spider-Man?” they taunt, and Harley crosses his arms. _Peter knows Spider-Man? Makes sense, if Tony works with the guy._ “Is he in Canada along with your imaginary girlfriend?” the teasing gains a smattering of laughs. 

Harley only rolls his eyes, stance tall and imposing with crossed arms and blank face. _I guess this is the Flash that Ned mentioned, then._ “I don’t know if you think I’m blind, but that’s just a random guy in a red shirt,” and dear god, Harley wants to punch this guy’s face in. His fists curl from where they’re crossed, pinpricks replaced with cold fire.

Then, like a snap, the fury dissipates along with Peter. Harley turns to Ned, “Where’s Peter?”

“Um,” is Ned’s first answer, and a current of dread runs through Harley. _Tony will kill me if Peter gets hurt. At a house party, of all things._ “I think he went to go get Spider-Man?”

Harley runs his tongue on the front of his top row of teeth, sighing. “Right,” he lets his hands fall to his pockets. “Spider-Man can understand a case of peer pressure, huh?” he says more to himself than anyone. “Was the guy at the booth…?”

“Flash? Yeah,” Ned says, leaving and returning with two cups of soda, handing one to Harley.

“What’s his deal?” Harley can draw his own conclusions (what with the name brand clothing and ostentatious accessorizing and _bullying_ ), but he might as well get it from someone who’s known Peter for longer. He takes a sip of drink, cool bubbly soda a welcome change from his anxiety-parched mouth.

Ned herds them both to the side, closer to a wall and mostly out of Flash’s sight. “Okay, don’t freak out when I say anything.”

“Why do you think I would?” Harley raises an eyebrow.

“Because you look like you’ve been wanting to punch Flash in the face since he started talking,” Ned points out, raising his own eyebrow in reply.

Harley sighs, rubbing his forehead. “I thought I had that in control.”

Ned shrugs. “You had a pretty good handle on it with Liz, but you went all alpha male on Flash,” he wiggles his fingers to illustrate the point. “So, don’t freak out,” he reminds Harley firmly.

“I won’t, I won’t,” he gestures for Ned to continue, drinking down more from the cup.

“Flash has been bullying Peter since middle school,” and Harley very nearly snorts his drink. Ned’s there to pat his back as Harley coughs up the rerouted liquids.

“Why?” he rasps out, setting aside the cup on the counter.

Ned shrugs half-heartedly. “We kinda knew Flash has been going through some shit. Peter’s just too nice to tell him to stop, said it doesn’t affect him, not really.”

Harley purses his lips, takes a sharp inhale of breath. “Going through some shit or no, that’s not an excuse to take it out on other people,” he says, tone dangerous. He starts to turn his heel, but Ned stops him by taking hold of his elbow.

“Whoa, hey, where are you going?” Ned asks, expression worried. “Please don’t tell me you’re actually gonna beat up Flash or something.”

Harley takes a deep breath to ground himself, to make sure he doesn’t just wrench his arm away from Ned’s grip. “No, I won’t beat Flash up or anything like that,” he turns to look at Ned, eyes flashing. “But if you know what’s good for you, please let go of my arm.”

Ned searches for something in his eyes for a moment, then frowning. “I sure hope you know what you’re doing, man. We all care about Peter, but this might make it worse.” He lets go of Harley’s arm.

“I’ll just,” Harley straightens up, previously hostile body language turning loose and casual. “Have a talk with our dear friend Flash.”

“I don’t know if you being visibly angry or this,” Ned waves his arms towards Harley. “Is worse.”

Harley tilts his head, an easy smile spreading across his face. “It’s just part of my charm, cowboy,” and he walks towards the turntables.

  


* * *

  


Peter loves Ned, he does. They’ve been friends since they were really little, when May brought him to pre-school. She says he wouldn’t stop crying until a boy came up to him and offered one of his rice crackers. Really, he’d do almost anything for the guy.

He might’ve actually swung in as Spider-Man at some point, but that isn’t why he left the party early. Karen had alerted him of an explosion that happened a little way’s away from the house. Another one happened after that, when he was changing into his suit at the Toomes’ rooftop. Blue fire rose up from afar.

“Karen, please track that explosion,” he says. His suit’s HUD fires up and tracks the last dregs of the explosion, calculating the distance through depth perception and local heat map. _Sorry, Ned._

“And start streaming suit footage to the 1519 Stark Private Server route 7033-7472 when we hit about, 25 feet of the destination. Did you record the original explosion?” he asks, swinging through the trees to get closer and closer to the site.

“Yes, Peter.”

“Please send that footage to dad as well,” he says. He hopes his dad gets the message and doesn’t come in guns blazing. That’s the _last_ thing this needs, especially if they’re dealing in a suburban area a way’s away from the city.

_Ah, fuck_. He’s run out of trees or street lamps to swing from, with an expansive park separating the suburb from the forest. “This sucks,” he whines, running across the field, panting.

He eventually ends up in the forest, with Karen beeping to let him know the streaming has started. He webs himself up to the trees, seeing a man holding a weapon next to a truck.

“Now this is crafted from a reclaimed sub-Ultron arm, straight from Sokovia,” a man in a beanie says, holding the weapon like it was a toy. “Here, you try,” he hands it to the other man, likely the buyer.

“I wanted something low-key, why’re you trying to upsell me, man?” Peter crawls a little closer, watching them upside-down from the bridge they’re under. The buyer returns the arm-gun to the dealer.

“I got tons of great stuff here, one sec,” the dealer soothes. He walks back to his van. “I got, black-hole grenades, Chitauri railguns…”

Another man rounds to the back of the van, this one’s probably the driver. “You lettin’ off shots in public now? Hurry up.” The driver’s voice is gravelly. “Look, times are changing. We’re the only ones selling these high-tech weapons,” Peter’s mouth sets to a fine line. _So this is where those guys must’ve gotten their stuff. Hope their claim of being the only dealers is true, too._

“I-I just need something to stick up somebody. I’m not trying to shoot them back in time,” the buyer says. The dealer says something that piques the buyer’s interest, so he walks up beside the dealer to take a look.

Then Peter’s phone goes off with the telltale [sounds of a trombone and an oven door crashing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CgHW02YF50s). _Dammit._ He hears a gun click and has to act fast.

“Karen, kill feed, send 1519 text template covert,” he mutters, then jumping down to reveal himself.

“Hey!” he calls out. “Hey, come on! You gonna shoot at somebody? Shoot the one in the bright spandex,” the buyer looks at Spider-Man with raised brow.

The driver turns to Spider-Man, “Aight,” training his gun on him. 

At just about the same time, he webs up the gun and tosses it aside. With the momentum, Peter webs to the arc of the bridge and swings into the van— 

Not expecting the dealer to equip a taser gauntlet and punch him all the way back. He lands back-first against the bridge pillar, debris scattering from the impact. Peter crashes to the ground face down, the hit enough to make his vision black out for a second. _What the hell was that…?_

“Training Wheels Protocol detecting moderate suit damage and substantial torso impact. Emergency feed coming online,” Karen declares. _Oh, no, no, no, no…_

“They’re getting away!” Peter exclaims, webbing a thread to attach himself to the van. 

This does not end up being a good idea.

Peter gets hit by several trash cans, a van, and two pink shots from another alien gun blows up the asphalt from behind him. At some point, a misfire from a rather hard swerve blows a hole into the van before it tumbles out of the dealer’s hands and into the park behind them. 

“Karen! Track that!” Peter shouts, HUD opening up a module that marks the last visual they had on the weapon and projecting it to a map of the local area. Then he hits a brick house marker and his web finally snaps.

“Nope, not gonna let you get away like that!” Peter pants out, climbing and jumping across rooftops, crashing pool parties, petting a dog, and memorably crashing a backyard slumber party. He’s sure his ears are still ringing from those girls’ high pitched screeching.

He finally gains on the van and is about to jump until—

_I really need to get better at anticipating these things_ , because one second he’s jumping shouting “Surprise!” and the next, something with wings and glowing green eyes catches him by the claws and he’s going up, up, up…

“Ascending 100 feet, 300 feet, 500 feet, 1,000 feet…” Karen dictates in an eerily calm voice. The numbers just keep climbing _._ Peter can see the dark expanse of the nearby river shrinking beneath him. “Activating Flying Squirrel protocol.”

_What?_ Peter doesn’t have much time to think because his suit beeps and a parachute bursts out from his back, catching wind and slipping him from the green-eyed flying guy’s grip.

Straight into the river.

He remembers a loud splash.

It’s dark.

He can’t breathe.

It’s dark.

  


* * *

  


Peter comes to to the sound of repulsors blasting, the feeling of metal gripping his torso, wind rushing past his ears. “Huh?” he mumbles, eyes opening slowly. “Oh, hi dad…”

  


* * *

  


“And _what_ did you think was going to happen, tailing a van with dangerous weapons like that?” To be fair, Peter really did see this coming. He just didn’t expect it nearly immediately after being fished out of a river by an irate parent in a shiny metal suit.

They’re in the nearby playground now, Tony hovering in front of Peter in his Iron Man suit, mask popped open to show his face. While Peter, Peter is wringing out the water from his mask while sitting on the metal climbing dome.

“I had it under control!” Peter protests. Tony stares, crossing his arms.

“…Until Ned called me and my phone wasn’t on vibrate…” Peter mutters. “But it was going well other than that!”

Tony stares at Peter for a little while more after that, narrowing his eyes a little before sighing. “Well, at least now you know why we don’t bring phones to stakeouts.”

Peter frowns. It wasn’t exactly his fault that he thought he was just gonna attend a house party, not go all out Spider-Man with his phone on him. Besides, his _dad_ is the one always pressing him to keep his phone on him at all times anyway!

He purses his lips and nods. “It was going fine,” he repeats. “I probably could’ve tracked them to their evil lair if that didn’t happen.”

Tony inwardly snorts at ‘evil lair’. “That’s not the point, Peter. What’s happened’s already happened, the op went bad, so you should’ve _called_ when they started pointing those weapons on you!” If he closes his eyes, he can still remember seeing the pink bursts of light almost hitting Peter, whistling past his head with barely a hairsbreadth between them.

“I was gonna call!” Peter asserts. “I thought it would’ve been easier if I had just caught them and we’d figure it out at the end of the chase!”

Tony sighs again, floating down to sit next to Peter on the metal dome. “We’re a team, Peter. A team means you have to let me know when you need backup, not just when your AI is streaming you flying up the sky in the clutches of a Kid Icarus-wannabe.”

Turns out, night time and being dunked into a river weren’t good for thermoregulation. “I-I know…” Peter says through chattering teeth.

“You know I installed a heater in there, right?” Tony raises an eyebrow. The voice command alone activates the module, steaming out all the excess water from the suit. 

“Oh,” Peter says. “Thanks,” he wrings out his mask, more to fidget than anything.

Tony shakes his head, fond. “What am I gonna do with you, kid?”

“You’re… not gonna ground me for not calling?” Peter suggests, smiling sheepishly.

_Ah, so that’s what I nearly forgot_ , Tony thinks sarcastically. “Nice try. You are, in fact, grounded for that stunt you just pulled.”

“Wh— n— but dad—!” Peter stutters out.

“Nope!” Tony bats those off with a flippant hand wave. “Spider-Man or no, you need to remember to take care of yourself before you swing around trying to take care of everyone else,” he reminds him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I know you want to save everyone, bud. And I get it,” if he closes his eyes now he’ll see that damned portal and the ULTRON all over again, so he doesn’t. “I really do,” he chokes out instead. “But you won’t be able to do that if you’re grievously injured or burnt out.”

Peter sighs. He knew it was only a matter of time before his dad threw his own words back at him. He leans his head on Iron Man’s pauldron. “I know. I thought I was catching on to the edge of something that could stop them once and for all. I didn’t want to bother you with it until I was sure.”

Tony closes his eyes, focusing his attention on Peter’s weight on his shoulder. “You’re never a bother to me, Peter,” he says. “Remember when you cried your eyes out in your first day of pre-school?”

Peter himself doesn’t remember, no, but May and Ben have told him the story enough times that he might as well have. He remembers crying and a rice cracker and meeting Ned. He also remembers knowing dad was in the car and couldn’t leave because otherwise the school would get swarmed with reporters.

“I couldn’t stand to see you cry,” Tony chuckles. “We nearly turned around all of five times, all the way until we got to your aunt and uncle’s apartment.”

Peter smiles. “It turned out all okay, in the end. I met Ned that way.”

“Ah, Ned,” Tony chuckles, shaking his head. “You better apologize to him and Harley for leaving them at that party.”

Peter’s eyes widen, shooting up from Tony’s shoulder. “Oh shit, you’re right,” quick as lightning, he whips out his phone to reply to one of Ned’s many missed calls and texts.

Tony snorts. “Language,” he reminds. “And don’t worry about getting them home. Ben’s picking them up, you just have to explain to them why you had to leave.”

Peter nods, sucking in his upper lip as he stares at his phone. “…should I tell Harley?” He looks back over to his dad.

“I think,” Tony sighs to himself. “That’s up for you to decide. I’ll be here to back whatever play you make, son.”

“I just don’t want to endanger him more than I might already have,” Peter admits softly.

“What’s your gut telling you?”

Peter huffs. “My gut’s telling me I’m hungry, mostly.” Probably from taking such a battering from earlier, his body needs to fuel up to recover faster.

Tony makes a noise. “We’ll get cheeseburgers on the way home, and Harley made cream puffs, enough for a spider-kid’s super-appetite,” he says, smiling when Peter’s face lights up. “But really,” he puts on a serious face for a moment. “Are you gonna tell him?”

Peter hums. “Probably not right this second, he’s only really been here just about a month, right? I don’t wanna pile it all up on him along with…” he waves a hand to the space in front of them. “Everything else happening, and all.”

Tony can only nod. “And that’s your decision. Let me know if it ever changes.”

The conversation trails off to silence, Peter’s legs swinging from the rods making up the climbing dome. His hands move fast to tap out new messages intermittently.

“So,” Tony clears his throat. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Peter nods, before pausing. “No, wait,” he holds up a hand. “I think I have something from that chase,” he stands up and puts his mask back on. “Karen, send dad the weapon I had you track earlier.”

Nigh instantaneously, Karen sends over the minimap she constructed to the Iron Man suit, showing up when Tony puts his mask back down. He hums, scanning the details before nodding. “Alright, let’s go pick up a souvenir for all our troubles.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Choux Pastry Recipe **   
>  _Courtesy of[How to Cook That](https://www.howtocookthat.net/public_html/croquembouche-recipe-crockenbush/)_
> 
> **INGREDIENTS:**
> 
>   * 1 cup or 250millilitres (8.45 fluid ounces) Water
>   * 75g (2.65 ounces) or 1/3 cup Butter
>   * 160g (5.64 ounces) or 1 cup plain all purpose Flour
>   * 4 Eggs
> 

> 
> **DIRECTIONS:**
> 
>   1. Heat the oven to 428ºF (220ºC)
>   2. Place the water and butter into a saucepan and heat until the butter is melted. 
>   3. Add the flour all at once and stir until it thickens and leaves the sides of the pan. 
>   4. Continue to stir and heat for another minute until it forms a really stiff ball.
>   5. Remove it from the heat and add in the eggs one at a time, mixing really well after each addition.
>   6. Place into a piping bag and pipe dollops onto the baking tray.
>   7. Bake for 20 minutes at 428ºF (220ºC) or until crisp.
> 

> 
> ** Pastry Cream Recipe **   
>  **INGREDIENTS:**
> 
>   * 500millilitres (16.91 fluid ounces) or 2 cups milk (4%)
>   * 4 egg yolks or 60g (2.12 ounces)
>   * 3/4 cup or 164g (5.78 ounces) sugar
>   * 30g (1.06 ounces) or 3 Tbsp flour
> 

> 
> **DIRECTIONS:**
> 
>   1. Whip the egg yolks and sugar until pale, whisk in the flour. 
>   2. Heat the milk, you can infuse it with flavour while it is heating, see the video for more help with this. 
>   3. Add a little hot milk at a time to the yolks mixture whisking as you do. 
>   4. Return to the pan and stir until well thickened.
>   5. Cool the cream, spread out on a baking dish for faster cooling time.
>   6. Re-whip the cooled custard and place in a piping bag.
>   7. Pipe the cream into the choux pastries until just filled.
> 



End file.
